I'm Still Writing.

At least, I am trying to.

I wrote four poems tonight. I wanted to share them somewhere, but at first, I didn't know where.

Then I thought of you.

And the blog. Well, when we first started the blog. That funny text conversation that led up to it.

I miss you.

And I thought maybe you'd like for me to pop in and try and keep you abreast of my life.

Well, this is my life at this exact night, these are the thoughts I felt someone needed to hear.

Or maybe that I needed for someone to hear.

Four Poems from January 7th, 2010.

At the corner of Overlook and Misleading

I walk along the street in the cracks of the concrete and I go marching down that lane al on my own. I walk down and inside and along these cracks onto which the likes of you dare not venture, my friend.

Spelling is an error only the blind man makes?
What kind of mockery is this?

Cracks in the beauty

Or beauty in the cracks?

They are broken like the souls of the people of the city who tread upon it.

They being these concrete paths slabs of self rightousness and survival of the fittest…

Or natural predisposition.

(Or supernatural at that.)

Beauty in all that stands beneath us?

What kind of trickery have you, strange fool?

Beauty in the cracks that surround us!

Beauty in the cracks we let ourselves fall into/1

That we’re drawn into.

That we climb into!

The beautiful caverns in which we immerse ourselves

And better yet

Our souls, my friends.

A Mean Case of the Ons and Offs

We are all here at once in this very place.

This rickety place it shakes

And turns

And roars past.

This tricky, odd place

Of ons ad offs.

That is our ride. We are schedules

Full of ons

And offs.

And we ride at rest

Or in panic

Or hurry.

Sometimes, we ride in a daze.

Sometimes still, we are not inside,

But rather,

It is our vehicle that surrounds us.

We are flying over the pavement and everything is a bright blur while

We

Soar.

Soar to a

Stop

…And the rest of us,

on to the next.

We are ons.

And we are offs.

They write stories about capturing moments like our love is.

Memories like a double exposure

On a darkened plane

With nothing but the night sky

Beneath

The rising sun in the rearview.

Silver spoons and Golden combs

Misty shores and brush fires

You are, in this picture of mine,

A prince

In a red Cadillac from the 50’s

With aviators

And wind-brushed hair

And Golden California skin

With warm wooden fireplace eyes

And a smile sex on the beach brings.

Music in your love

Wind all over our bodies

Sun in our hearts and behind

Our eyes

They meet

And for a moment

If just

A moment…

We are the sun setting and the click of the shutter

And the wind gliding over the ocean and the hood

And the sun glinting off of a pair

A pair

Of sunglasses.

They write stories about capturing moments like our love is.

We Can’t Afford Not to Be Our Own Gods

Flights of stairs

Flights of fancy

Flights of stares

And fares

And dares.

We arrive

In glitter

And we are

Gilded

With golden chocolate.

They devour us

Sliver

By sliver.

We relish their teeth

We crave their tongues

We need their thirst

Their longing

Their souls.

We fight to be devoured

Because here and now

Everyone wants to be devoured

In a manner most becoming of anything

New

And undone

Before.

We come undone at them clawing us apart at the seams

Yet we throw ourselves

At the slobbering jowls of the beasts.