Terrible Manners

My head tends to list to one side when I listen intently to someone.

I often notice this, I’ve noticed recently, and then in reaction

To my unconscious cranial orbit

I become keenly aware of which of their eyes I am looking at.

I then dart from eye to eye, like a sort of distressed female star

Of a romantic comedy/drama

Pleading with Her Man

Oh no say it ain’t so!

Minus the tears.

It’s really rather quite odd indeed

That this heightened awareness seems,

Unfailingly, yet somehow simultaneously unpredictably and erratically,

To heighten in proportion to how well I know a person.

I’m not sure what this says about me

Or how it appears to those with whom I frequently converse

But I do know

That the modern axiom likely still applies;

That they really don’t care,

And are most likely intently focused on and invested in whatever it is

They have to say.

Which, by the time I’m finished deciding that Okay left eye it is,

I’ve completely lost track of.

And they say that people are self-centred.

Post-Metamorphosis

Perhaps if I were to truly know you

I wouldn’t want to.

But the narrowing of my mind

When you walk by in those shorts

That are far too short

And my following gaze begging you to give one crumb of shit

Suggest something otherwise;

At least, to me, they do, I think.

Of course you wouldn’t think about it.

Why should you?

I see the faint glances back you give me as you walk by

Maybe wondering how much you affected me, maybe trying to remember,

Maybe not knowing Why the fuck is this guy looking at me?

Maybe pining for what could have been.

But who am I to judge?

It was not a heavy gesture to you, then—

I pined and pined for months until whatever part of me which,

Albeit neglected,

Was responsible for freedom of spirit

Finally said enough is enough is enough and asked you So like

I wanted to ask if you maybe would like to get a coffee some time?

And you said Yes

And the Dept. of Youthful Freedoms had an office party

And my hands and/or voice trembled as I took your number

And my therapist was very happy for me

And I called you an appropriate number of days later

And there was no answer

And I called you an exponentially appropriate number of days after that

And there was no answer

And I saw you an appropriate number^2 of days after that

And I asked you So like

What was up with your phone or were you getting my calls or?

And you said you were seeing someone

And I smiled and said it was okay

Untitled

Yes; my dreams are stale and palsied,

And Yes they might be long rendered ineffective.

But I believe that to live is to try

And try I will,

I might - that I would be loosed from this cage

Of disbelief.

Please do not err to spell out my attempts as meaningless.

They are one and all unfolding and recursive of themselves.

They mitigate their own shortcomings

By spelling themselves out

In corporeal movements and afflated thoughts unknown.

Experiments

Moving through pastures
On rickety tracks—
The faces about me
Are taken aback.

Look in their eyes,
And hold with their gaze.
That deafening silence
Will echo for days;

In the minds of their children
When they seem distraught,
And the words of their colleagues,
With their voices so taut.

I’m trying to teach
A lesson I don’t yet know:
How to love freely
And let that love go.

Blindness

So today’s going to be a shitty day;
So what?
It’s not as if

The sun is gently coaxing the clouds to light,
Showering the ground in its even warmth.
It’s not as if

The steady breath of the wind
Is caressing the green lips of life
Reaching from the soil.
It’s not as if

The heartbeat of every blessed vessel
Pulses in time with the world around it,
Unconsciously joined
In the dance of infinity.

12:43

Rawness in my chest
Stifles my breathing.
My heart’s still beating, I guess,
But it’s hard to tell
When I’ve made you my guest.

Invited you in, expecting
Some sort of respect,
But apparently all I deserved
Was your voice of neglect.

To their words, I should have kept:
“To thine own self be true,”
But when “thine own self” is blue
In the face and ragged from running
For a train, it’s easy to forget your cunning.

You’re hardly baffling, and I wouldn’t call
You powerful. Still, I always seem to fall
For your simplest of tricks;
Always evading me - how this mind ticks.

Breaking Point

Morning, noon, and night;
How can anyone tell the difference anymore?
Is there something I’m missing?

The point.

I’ve been carried away by my own dreary-eyed weariness
Of the ties binding my mind
To every mis-matched mishmash of
Over-intellectualized, processed, choreographed, serialized,
Written-produced-and-packed
Bullshit
That meshes with its threshold.

And the absolute
L E T H A R G Y
The complete and utter
Lazy Defeat
That follows the realization that
“Carried Away”
Is just another threshold-mesher;

That’s the point.
It’s in there somewhere.
Not between the lines,
But under them.

arhythmatic

laid out

before the sounds

wish i could

grasp

the ground is rushing

fishing for passion

tasks

unlike the others

unlike, smothering

mothering the plebes

fathering their sins

black out in fashion

so i can count them

the bruises in your portfolio

now follow

as i awake the

steaks and taxes

let’s live our lives and

die bored

lend me the money

and i’ll buy you a

quadsicle

that’s two seats

for moms and pops

and two for the

priest and undertaker