untitled
.

eighties poems scattered

thickly textured socks
in blue grey hues and t-shirt
army fatiqued a few sizes small
with expansive worn and cooling
blue jeans
and shoes brown leathered
secondary skins
and keeping me good
running
sitting
thinking
and while in a pile
awaiting
a pair of
emerald
eyes opening from sleep

and eventually
walls open
and pieces of angry her
and angry him
slip through
cracking
a dream and plaster

a near nightly ritual
of ghosts who still
occasionally live

and suddenly the bed
is a furnace of volcanic stones
and the flesh
feels vibration
and somewhere it is understood
as bad

the mind asks
of the soul

how can love
ripen
and be eaten of
and yet be a rotting
thing as well?

embrace a silence

do all it's fruits
rot when love itself
is decomposed?

dance with a
darkness

and the body is naked
and indifferent to such
but carefully
it is clothed and sneaking
out a door
and down a hall
where
a door
is already opening

I step from the porch of
hanging ferns and things
it's cold
but warm
and I smell october
and spring whenever
and sometimes summer
and it's always
right after
saying hello to some
lovely girl

and this time travels
backwards
forward
and sits still
with
this thought slipping
that thought holding
and some notions being born

the years
tend to cling
to such memories
regardless

but I'm sent back again
to rocks sliding
after every footstep
echoes up the hill
and I've found the tree again
and I'm proclaiming
and then the rain is brought
here

and then I'm lying down
staring at darkness
relaxing with the little
light left in the room
and my clothes are on the floor
I'm a dream
that no one can be woke from
and it seems I've been thrown
from the past to the future
but still I'm lurking
in memories of months ago

and there were my clothes upon
the floor
a sweater
and socks
and brown slacks
and a coat
hanging on a bedpost

and the whole time I'm reaching down
to the floor to gather my clothes
there is a girl across the room
and I could tell you how we met
but I'm not even sure
and I'm merely a guest
in room with two beds

but I wonder

and soon I'm crying
facing the mountains
in the distance

and I know
that the airplane
will never remove me from this place

and I want to go back in
and kiss her lightly
and breathe what
she exhales
and grow dizzy with her
until I awake holding her

but I wonder
why her presence
makes me forget
things to say,
things to do
and I simply
act out the remainder
of a fool's lines
in an empty theatre

and a thousand emotions
are born
and a thousand die just as quickly

jealousy rides in and out
darkening the night

and then I'm sleeping
and my emerald eyes are open

the days of waste
have left me

no longer on heights of lowlifes

no longer hating my scars

and the minute slips into the next
until an hour has gone by

I am nothing more
than a clock
who remembers you
-------
.
.
one from too many
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Once again your few words speak volumes to me!! I must admit that this sends chills down my spine and leaves me gasping for myself so that I may breathe the words again.
~~Cor~~
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'few words', Cor? Have I misunderstood 'few'?
-------
Few: Amounting to or consisting of a small number. Being more than one but definitely small in number.
Better to say "your many words speak volumes to me!!" Cor, that would be a correct statement.
-------
It's all relative. Your perception of "few" may be different than mine.
~~Cor~~
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I really like this either way!
)Kaleb
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It's confusing in parts, but I can honestly say I'm proud of it, and I'm
thankful that you could acknowledge it.
one from
m a n y