Odd Angle

A dozen gestures
of his eyebrows and hands
working in concert
with a cool and detached tone,
drawing me in with science;
more lines on his forehead
making exceptions to standards
he sets but ignores
– and I’ve memorized each one.

Learning is an accidental affair.

Too many voices
not my own
and I still follow
the odd angle
almost blindly
like a flower turning to sun.

Feathers of the same root

A loose shoelace
and a careening cuff on jeans;
the road seems to turn fluid.
I realize
the treacherous slide
of looking back-
even dirty,
there’s comfort in set equations.

He last wrote with me in mind
months ago
and I discovered it was just an echo
of her, still her,
which made me feel
like a feather plucked
before its time.
And he is worried about time.

But I am floating
just like he is
and it’s all the same now
in mid-air,
with only sky and wind
to hear the tales
and wonder at the silliness
of flesh and synapses.

Isolated

 

In the white place,
I swept up my own bones
and sang what I recalled
from the womb.

It wasn’t technicolor
and it was’t syncopated,
but it was a fine respite.

Sweet Spring Sweat

It was while waiting
for the other shoe
to drop
we decided to drape ourselves
in kale
before it was too late
for any neo-nostalgic bandwagon

Tell me you don’t try
to hold sunbeams
when nobody’s looking

The only filter
seems to be one of memory,
where we pretend
not to be affected
when the metal song
we lost our virginity to
starts playing,
connecting awkward pauses
to garnish on a plate
all alone for a busboy to view

Pre-Dawn Insight

An epic battle took place
sometime between 1 and 3 am
this morning
in my head
and I can’t remember much of it
but I awoke with
a start and a pounding heart.
Breathless and rested
all at once.

That flash of insight
you are gifted
when relaxed
and a modicum of tension holds
at least one part of the body-
that’s the moment
when all meaning becomes clear
and nonsense is everything.
Skies were open,
the path gilded.
My song was quiet
but strong and carried far.
The only chaser
was a crooked past
and as I held still,
a storm of sun and music raged.
I have no idea what this means
to a dreamologist
and I don’t think it much matters.
I got a push
to get through Monday
and I’m rolling.