Still Here

I’m right here
So close I can see the hair on the back of your neck stand up as my breath tickles it’s way past
but as I reach out to touch you
to hold you in my arms
you vanish
transported through time and space
to a dimension my fingertips cannot reach
yet my eyes can still see you

I’m right here
So close I can feel the rise and fall of each breath that passes through your dreams
but as I speak out to reach you
my words become solid
and drop from the air
they fall empty
missing their connection
yet my eyes can still see you

I’m right here
So close I can smell the earth you were born from and the heaven that washes you in stardust
but when I lean in to kiss you
you melt into the ocean
and float out to sea
my lips left drifting in the unending vastness of alone
yet my eyes can still see you

I'm right here...

spoken

I spin and the earth stands still its the melting that I'm addicted to the flying the melting the melding of heartbeat and drumbeat of flesh and earth
I stop. stop.
I-I-I can't get my footing I can't stop its the spinning that I'm addicted to the dripping the spinning the spilling of blood and water of soul and ocean
I spin. I'm addicted.

ash

walk through the fire and our language will be the same again

I am forgetting rapidly the tongue in which I spoke

in which you still speak

only the ugly words remain

empty hollow words for us to share

-

pull back my hand to avoid the bite

but blood spills still

easily I bleed

-

searching for the leechwife to bleed away my sickness

to cleanse me of the tongue in which I spoke

in which you still speak

only the burnt words remain

ashes & dust words we used to share

one world to the left

A new blood pulses through my veins to the off time beat of syncopated disbelief. I am trying to establish a rhythm, a rule but it eludes me just now. There is an incorrigible effervesence just below the skin on my cheeks. I am changing, melting, melding into something unrecognizably grand. I won't be long, I'm just around the corner, one world to the left.

over my shoulder

Slowly I walk
not towards but away from

I want faded pictures
of tiny objects viewed through squinted eyes

I want distant memories
of out of focus experience to share over coffee

I want impressionist paintings
of vague happenings to be all that lingers

Slowly I turn
not away from but towards...

ebb

I was feeling low and losery and wasting my life like and decided that Baudelaire may give me sweeter dreams so I picked a page and read of Cythera long and complex and beyond my knowing but ends with God give me strength to contemplate my soul and I was momentarily healed on the spot still willing to see what tomorrow brings not that I ever wouldn't want to see a tomorrow but it sounded good right so hello again the antisocial neurosis is on vacation or something or maybe it takes exactly thirty days to recover ones self after a terrorist attack on your/my psyche before Baudelaire remedied the six thousand four hundred and thirty fourth revolution of redundant broken brain that plagues the existence of my thinking thing I had probed the addiction vortex the hole that cannot be filled the hunger that increases when fed and pondered what exactly is missing that needs to be replaced but cannot and if you are prone to such things is it even possible to restore that which is absent or is the affliction permanent the pondering the contemplating the digging the aching the looking the searching the knowing

going home

Bruises are simpler
I could watch them fade away
Instead my self fades