Procrastination

I’m watching

As this life is brought to a boil.

 

Relief found in pockets of

My back against a wall,

For the five minutes I allow myself:

Staring off,

Playing with eye floaters

Against the back drop of

A pale blue sky,

Like a glitter globe;

Watching it turn into a glare

In a matter of hours,

Slowly revealing an image of me.

Ear buds blasting a vague semblance of

“Here with me” (the White Noise alt. version),

Reluctant to open books for

What I’ve been waiting my whole life to study

And reluctant to quit now

Because I hadn’t done enough.

 

I just want to play the drums

Or maybe find the time to learn guitar:

Something that I can do in my apartment,

You know?

 

“Don’t think about…”

I’ll take five more –

Of staring off.

Just until this song ends.

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Compartment

I am the ebony joy,

A blackberry soaking in a wine glass

Or a coat of varnish,

An embrace eternal

And entombing.

 

Either way, I’m quite dense from years of pressure,

Cooked and processed.

It’s a wonder my blood flows at all

As a ladder bearer,

Son of ladder.

 

I equal my outside

As little as possible

To maintain potential

For fear of losing me.

 

I am a collective of gradient crossing barrier

And am frightened of rejection by the great wave

As it cracks

And turns into a receeding shoreline

To crash

And recede…

An apology.

Nothing

It is a spell sewn

from lips a quiver;

the veil of a tongue

amorous and sweet on

You.

 

It is a spell sewn

From a place that is

Caged and Sleepless,

Feeling romance in what it cannot

“In a million years”

Celebrate.

 

It is a spell sewn

from a part that longs,

soaked in tincture;

becoming naked over

time.

 

It is a spell sewn

from a stain on those lips

“The last straw,”

a pistol drawn to scribe

a part of my soul unto

You.

 

now You must

weave.

A Play and Portrait of Memory

My memories are a perversion:

Caricatures of Christmas morning,

a distance from closeness;

numb noses; undressed

figurines sealed in space

of Coffee, cinnamon & pine.

 

Or

My memories have been perverted:

I am a caricature of a dreaming sapling

distanced from closeness,

dressed in numbness

a figurine vacuum sealed

caked in cologne: sweet and sticky.

Whale

Am I so jaded I’d spit out to dwell a doldrum?
And in this state, I’ll often feel safe
being at arms length and change with all
but in this delusion,
how oft I feel collected
contrasts how disheveled these pieces are
and taxed at their core.
A grey stacked so high feigns the warmth of quilts
Of which I often seek and have yet to know.

Yet still I push, substituting tender embraces
With jacket sleeves and vacancy
In my own eyes.
Like all vacuums, they are wont
To accept anything
Thus feeding back and insisting illness.

The pulses in my fingertips spells out sweeter sentiments,
Preaching beauty in this world,
As do a songbird or a Tyger’s roar,
The sheep, perhaps, less sweet in its semblance to my own vacancy
I presume.