remember

remember me as i was
i had laughs and fears
and i cried sometimes;
every once in a while
i made halfhearted attempts
good tries,
on my behalf--
to make good
on some of the promises
i've made.

today was nothing,
yesterday i said
"tomorrow shows
the future of these
messy lives
and all of these
unwitting blows"
and yet again
i'm not sure if i know
if yet again
tomorrow comes
what it may cease to show
or what perhaps may unfold
but probably not
still instead
they say
its a
permanent solution
to some temporary problems

i feel

there's a distinct lack of effort
behind every thing i do.
illusions drive me forward
i don't know what holds the reins.
all the while i'm determined
to figure out the prospect of
enjoyment along the minutiae of it all.

there's a distinct sense of
disappointment that i feel
when i'm called into the room.
there's a number with my name
and a brief, uninteresting appointment
in an office without a face.

i am constantly ashamed of
the things i have yet to say.
i want nothing more than to succeed.
success is everything.
yet i can't prepare
for a future that leads nowhere.

moonbrush

blasphemy be my 21st century;
blessings marked by brazen impotency
believing in me, these crumbling trees--
crooked branches crackle-sway, crackle-sway--
bramble blanket whistling wind
cover hover arching over dirt pathways.
gutters lined with empty letters, shifty eyed a summer's fall
inhaling deeply its winter breaths
and memorizing a winter death;
the sun lifts later bound, the clouds curl west, and
mother drops her heavy lids and mutters
prayers for the best.

in lights

a requiem to our dream escapes
some love-lost lips anticipate
some long-lost reward, still yet to come
perhaps, or not, if there be one.

in golden gales and exploding sky
if or when yours should meet mine
i imagine nothing passing by
of worthy note, or memory.

i should think that years apart would
make fonder yet some fonding hearts;
yet i am wanting of quiet sympathy
perhaps without which i'm unlovely.

in all in all the worst to come
must be the break of expectation.
i declare, it's no good to care
when loving flees like seeds in air.

tired

are you not lonely when speaking words are unspoken thus,
and daily partners locking eyes see one other but barely found?
like icy steels whose shoulders brush,
some rushing trains from to and from, uninterested and duty-bound.
inside each mind a king contained: a throne, a hall, a hand bedecked with sparkling rings;
in measure taken back a step, yourself you hold in charge of things.
but is it cold, so deep inside that lofty vault of ivory carved?
no foreign thought to penetrate, no requited love to disregard?
such purpose outlined in your face, and poise enacted upon your action,
but no subtleties that surprise you here, nor answers meet your satisfaction.

Do you breathe your sighs alone? Or is it for having never spoken
to substantial spirits out beyond your own
that you have staled and withered by, an ageless look that appears to die?
with wisdom well beyond your years that alienates you from your peers;
fashionably distracted now, and sociably intact.
grace us with your presence once, once inured to find
some privy disassociation thus was better left behind.

in the suburbs

the house won't leave the front lawn buried
its feet and tail in the backyard;
the trees dangle leaves blow lazy in the windswept
dust ruffling empty streets of clean paved charcoal dark
black cement.
a toe tap sidewalk touch and the birds exult
tweetle singing praises tootle whispers in the wasting breeze they went.

but there's an eye for every eye we spend when we cross our paths
our shuffling feet coinciding upon these dead and empty ends
so spend a dime for every
time a minute dies;
inside the hours click on by and
saturate the air.
the musty smell of pages
turned
compiled soaked in skin flake musk,
a seething sun, a new day earned
and sunlit dreams in disrepair.

chances

chances are, if you're aware
of it there's nothing much more
there to care
about it at all, suffice as to say
that i suppose it's something
you carry away.

what you don't
know can hurt you still,
and what you know
can not as well;
the blending white
envelops words
and worlds apart
your own hell.


call me early,
i'll be gone
for as long as i'll wait
i'll be heavy with the
passion, sorely;
i'm in no mood for saving
grace,
or for swallowed pride,
the kind i hate.