a) You know, a few months ago, I made a terrible mistake.
b) Really?
a) Yeah.
But I realised something.
And instead of crushing the thought the moment it came I...
I let it hang on and...
Now I know it to be true.
And I'm afraid it's stuck in my head forever.
b) What was the thought?
a) That these are the best days of our lives.
It's a terrible thing to know, but I know it.
b) I don't know about that.
a) Well, yeah. Yeah.
Maybe you'll be lucky.
Maybe you'll have better days, but I doubt it.
We stood on top of the mountain, compadre.
It's a long way do-be-do-be down.
Monday, October 03, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
and hope to keep safe from the pain
your words linger
in a space
in my heart
that is - while I think you imagine it a giant blank warehouse -
actually is being actively and intentionally condensed into the tiniest emotional nuclear waste dump imaginable, a Russian nesting doll whose additional layers make it smaller, tougher, and more contained.
a heart the size and consistency of a "bb".
It dances on the head of the pin, though, no angels in sight.
Angels aren't thinking about reopening the wound with a swift jab from a fission explosion.
On the alters of:
normalcy,
provision,
comfort,
exaltation,
satisfaction,
and possibility
have I offered my:
youth,
sanity,
self,
passion,
satisfaction,
and actuality.
Yet, in less than one sentence,
The nesting dolls are pushed off their shelf,
and slow-motion dive toward the nucleus.
You have reduced me to glass and ash.
Can a phoenix use its own tears to heal itself?
Is that a refining process?
in a space
in my heart
that is - while I think you imagine it a giant blank warehouse -
actually is being actively and intentionally condensed into the tiniest emotional nuclear waste dump imaginable, a Russian nesting doll whose additional layers make it smaller, tougher, and more contained.
a heart the size and consistency of a "bb".
It dances on the head of the pin, though, no angels in sight.
Angels aren't thinking about reopening the wound with a swift jab from a fission explosion.
On the alters of:
normalcy,
provision,
comfort,
exaltation,
satisfaction,
and possibility
have I offered my:
youth,
sanity,
self,
passion,
satisfaction,
and actuality.
Yet, in less than one sentence,
The nesting dolls are pushed off their shelf,
and slow-motion dive toward the nucleus.
You have reduced me to glass and ash.
Can a phoenix use its own tears to heal itself?
Is that a refining process?
Thursday, February 10, 2011
diarist and poet
scan the list.
hunt for yourself.
the name-tag you wear disappoints
you.
me.
you is me.
or at least like me.
difficult to admit
this identity crisis
without judging
loved ones
and self
for generations.
I'd rather not.
In America,
they say,
you can be self made.
It's in your head.
Marketing isn't bioengineering
in my head
or body.
Nathan, can we jump?
Can we not and say we did, like you used to ask?
Is lying to yourself worth the time?
My head
is held
to the spot
on the couch
that I made
with my name-tag
and I am rebuked.
so I scan the list.
and hunt for myself.
hunt for yourself.
the name-tag you wear disappoints
you.
me.
you is me.
or at least like me.
difficult to admit
this identity crisis
without judging
loved ones
and self
for generations.
I'd rather not.
In America,
they say,
you can be self made.
It's in your head.
Marketing isn't bioengineering
in my head
or body.
Nathan, can we jump?
Can we not and say we did, like you used to ask?
Is lying to yourself worth the time?
My head
is held
to the spot
on the couch
that I made
with my name-tag
and I am rebuked.
so I scan the list.
and hunt for myself.
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