the worn road

The story before is the story you know, to know the storied hero of lunch box and action figure on the way to glory. To be so certain of the way words play. The evidence always imminent. The twist the point of all further evangelisms. The symbol the very paramount of what they said. I am a telling of ten thousand summers. I am a prophet of the coming wilderness. The weary cadence of the sad believer. The story certain it wants said again.

The story fresh upon the lips, more luscious in each telling. The break from looming consequence a giddy surrender. These dreams I have, these dreams I want. The insistence on the collar and all the corollaries. We lay the blame on these appetites, the bare direction of want, and the insistence on innocence. The simple notion of your closeness. This sigh while I wait to sleep.

Again my heart is on the water, the starry seas of faraway. Again I want in sleepover light, the popcorn movie and your sovereign eminence. The waste and want of days lived against the common refrain. This swim upstream against the rush of command. Here at the ache of intersection, the returned gaze and I told you sos.

pornograph

A building wind gone wild and a tide of tree limbs, the moon walking tiptoe through the scattered leaves, this hour of long and lose. The heel of the season just come down, grinding at the bones. All your darling lovers littering the tenses. All the conversation left between you and the heaven help us moon. The years and the hour glowering down, and you linger for a moment in the taste of missing lips. Wanton wishing, and the shadows weighing down.

You again at the edge of fever. The imagined heat of remembered flesh, the long night of the deep lonesome. All these threadbare metaphors, this ten thousandth starry starry night. Words to press against the pleasures you possess. Common drugstore odysseys and the grave you’re digging. Breathless moments and blessings numbered and laid to rest.

I want you, but it’s way past lights out. You the very limbs of slow kindling, the deadly art of live wire. The heat the root of your incarnation, this light a glow from the tomb of the unknown star. Love letters and ritual incantations. The what to say and where to say it. My wishes all upon you, and all these words instead.

oh the wicked ways

Oh the wicked ways of syntax. Oh the devilish draw and drag of simple syllables. The strange pretexts that pick and choose us. The line of succession between the tenses. The dire pairings of intent.

I sigh deep, and I close the window. I smile sad and have a smoke. The light left on and the fan always running. My sentence runs on and on.

All the words to say I want you. This wishing you into all my dust and drear. The dingy pillows, the ashtray eyes. Just the words and the way I always go there. The way I want you and only have these words to show.

the words for all we know

Would that the words would leave. The stories untold passing on to another unteller. The burden of proof left to some other page. To live past visitation. To build a fire where the elder spirits don’t call. This empty unencumbered with the telling.

The words habituate the husk, stick to the edges of the form. They step fearless into speeding thoughts and try to wrest them from their direction. They cling tight to the feeling as the heart sings in rounds. They cling tight to the shine when they come claiming crown. They chat you up and bed you down, ghosts in the hard harbor of unnamed hungers. They tear you down and sell your soul for scrap.

The hour lingers and the words come round. They open all my drawers and call out my secrets. The stacked deck and wicked mantra in the mirror. The old taunts and broken oaths, the watcher out the window, the murder at the door. They toss my cell and scoff at the mess they make, 52 pick up with all my plans. I’ve got nothing, but they don’t stop. All the hard questions and told stories. Love letters only words for all we know.

where the flesh abides

This is way of the love of long partings. This is the place where the flesh abides. The brooding heat, the clinging ardor.Your scent in the air like the press of a kiss. A rush of blood, a sudden palpitation. This onslaught of wishes, a ring around the moon.

The street outside is fraught with its intrusions, the pitch of traffic, the ruckus of dogs. Every last salvo insists upon the room around. Present company and equity sweat. The love letter tethers of hearts and parts. The hard contrast between world and want.

The world is full of fitful attachments. The hush of the forest and the tilt of your head. The crush of blood rush appetites. Goodnight lines and the weight of your ritual bones. These shameless imaginings and the unreasonable demands of the flesh. This furtive worship, this lingering night.

under the see

At certain sounds I shut my eyes as if I was a place to hide. The nights go crazy, what with all the ambiance, rags, bones, and bottles. The whole contentious retinue and their penny ante capers. There’s never any peace inside, so I leave me in the dirt. Without me to kick around, there’s hardly a bother at all.

Deadened thoughts and lead lined senses. The claims of erasure never sufficient to stay the sentence. Every word a hole to fill, always with more words. The conundrum stumbles, the tongue trips and glides. Sort through the rubble, pick your favorite pieces. Scan the shelves and choose your weapon.

The noise a need when the need arises, the noise a mark on the map of the mind. The name gets further every day. Open your eyes and slip on this skin. Loose the words that burn. This vessel of the invisible. This curse of laden claims.

the romantics

I suppose we shall always live apart, me and my precious heart. It’s a lament I’ll lay down by the tide, a secret I shared while seeing you as I looked at the moon. Waiting and wanting and speaking aloud. A story about what my favorite story would be if these stories could come true. These various meditations on how it feels to always somehow miss the mark.

The shadows work where we’re not watching. They close the doors and dull details. Reveal depths and hidden vessels, rushing away from the citadel of the seen. The details all devils giving us away. Beware the tale you buy. Beware the blanks you are offered to fulfill.

The beat goes on until the party’s over or the power goes out. The back and forth of wish and want. The need to hear it said with no skimping on the beauty. The need to leave a mark for Cain to bear. The gray shores and endless tides littered with remainders. My life the story of only needing what was missed, the measure of the drift between these words of love and what they really mean.