I know you don’t care much
for my kind, but please
spare me. I have little time left
for the type of nonsense we had originally
invested so much of ourselves in,
it just isn’t worth divulging anymore,
or indugling, dependent of how we were
lying down, and when,
the street corners had some sort of significance.
But isn’t that it had always been between us?
Me the wanting fool and you the harlot?
Oh now, don’t blush, dont be angry,
it was what it was, and you standing before me
glaring doesn’t change anything at all,
written in stone. As you well know,
I was always a bit block headed,
one of my most admireable traits. It kept us going
for longer than it should have, quite drained me
of my senses, little left now, just floating about,
I have a better understanding of crackling leaves,
let me tell you, a kinship. In the wind
dry and hollow. I could write
a thesis on it, quite a dissertation, it would take me
years to get it right, but i’d be mostly writing all that
time: that’s how much I could say about it, and without need
of defense, what you had done to me
is solely in my head, not yours, neither anyone else’s
for that matter, and so, no board to present it to,
just maybe a set of chafed knukles and fingerbits. Strained
through the floorboards, with my ear to floor, i’d find myself
like that, no clue as to why, you didn’t even live
underneath me anymore, the pun is
“that I had hoped you were dead and you were sent straight to hell”,
despite my anxiety, and you smiling just seconds before.
You shouldn’t have called out my name,
just let me keep walking into familiar ground, let me stumble
as I have been. It isn’t too much to ask for, is it?
Just one of those pipedreams I suppose.

“He’s going. Soon.”
,she says this and I can no longer feel any remorse in her voice. She is stating facts, she is reading a shopping list and not so far off from being bored.
It’s all receding, even the random sensations,
-blink of eyes, taken for granted for so long, still happening but completely behind my back, eyelashes and lids no longer speak to their upper or lower counterparts, going about motions, silent and thus invisible,
-tightening of scrotum with simple shifting of thigh
-tension of the muscle atop shin as leg extends and toes point away, stretching
-tongue flattening against roof of mouth, tip first, upward, forcing saliva back, releasing tongue and throat ripples downward, so as to swallow
-holding of spinchter and gentle mumbling of bowels resisting movement, shifting
-even air entering, brushing along lips and passageways, through trachea, and wet at some point in lungs, until diaphragm, detached and foreign, squeezes, and rush of exhalation, thrusting, expanding softest parts, just edges of nostrils, and out. Breathing.
It no longer registers, despite its effort to continue. How refreshing it must’ve been to catch myself breathing when I had least expected it: the act, in itself, so selfless, without any demands on the mind, seeing chest or stomach, dependent on my position, rise and fall, so delicate, so determined,
it all fades from me, now, the sounds that once emanated from me, in me, of me internally, even the memory, thin thing that it is. It takes much concentration to think of those things. To perpetuate, at least, functions that despite good intentions, I no longer appreciate as having come full circle, completed, with enough inertia to go ’round again.
I might have already left and last synapses are convulsing, simply. That the precisely last sensory input, of her, somewhere near, speaking,
“He’s going. Soon.”
was never near, nor input, nor precise. She might have said more, but the brain, in its dying spasms, retains only those words for some odd purpose, or defect in a switchboard between left and right hemispheres: a scratched record, skipping and repeating a fragment. Of a larger context. The truth of the matter is, at this point, so far from even the waning auditory capacities, it is impossible to discern nor imagine otherwise, or likewise, in any event.
It’s all receding, drifting what have you, but for glimpses of effort, to remember how to be alive. For just a bit longer, beyond the finality, focusing on the mechanics, so little left after so long, without any pretext on approaching Death. Chances are great that there will not be an opportunity to introduce myself to Death properly, it will suddenly be in my home, without formalities, rude and polite. On this I simply can not be accurate, I will already be gone just when I thought I was still going through the motions.
No. That’s not right. Wishful thinking. I am still, and she also, a chair and desk bolted to their positions on the floor for fear of thievery, I wouldn’t mind or disagree. It’s her voice, now and before, not post-exit, or mortem, or the last smoldering.
My sight has completely blurred beyond what it was before, which was not much to note. Rain on a window, wet and dripping, now completely opaque, where all has vanished but for the numb and vague colors. When it was ‘sight’, and recognizable as such, it was useful enough to encourage honing: onion peeling, every crevice expanded and regarded, volumes of notations on the horizontals, vertices, variety of angles, and depths, interlockings of the such. I should say, if ever I had a pen at hand, or a book, there would’ve been volumes of examination. Just lines and curves and dimensions, without attention to color. I never practiced any interest in hues and brilliance or measures of the such, not in the blood, most likely, though the sight of my own blood brought on quite a stir, or alarm, depending on my mood. This is neither here nor there.
Reminiscing. Before even my eyes left me, or just at the failing of, seconds perhaps, everything else had deteriorated, or in the process of, close to finish, exhausted I believe, she was sitting at my bedside. How terrible. She concerned genuinely, how pock-marked. Just then, it all left, the seeing and sight of her, and that was immediately comforting. In hindsight, however, filled with regret. Her contortions are the last thing seen, etched in the skull as it were, an image stared at for far too long, ghostly or ghastly. Either one, but I prefer mangled, there in the darkness, nothing else to remember her by, in the last moments. I can recall other things of her: the soft part of her thighs, her sturdy back, her neck, but it hollows itself out further and empty even in the attempt. To start again, in spurts, without content beyond spontaneity. Not her on me, no. No memory of that. Rather, with me on her, the localities of a what of me that touched a what of her, the sensation of me in her. It had been slow reaching her, or actually, to convince her to reach me, I was never too far. The implication is that she was lazy and did not want, no. I can’t describe it. Nonsense, even after decades. That is safe to say, we had decades and bed sheets and flowers and coffee grinds and grips and sweat, but the beginning was difficult. Now she does not leave me, it was a habit of hers, leaving always, at the onset. Any more than that, to analyze, would be pure speculation, as it was, and nothing more of it. It is gone, or has been, from the moment I felt her insides,
-how warm and tight and unexpected, the first time, suddenly hesitant between sheets, we knew what we were doing but we were doing it to each other, quiet disbelief and laughter, bright teeth smiling
-her rump high and back at a curved angle rising, in the shower, rivulets of water down her sides, back, off her breasts, cascading, her arms bracing the wall, head back, slightly turned, her eye on me, hair dripping, my hands on her hips
-quieter times, no words spoken, solely the eyes, across the length of the kitchen table,
it all recedes in the distance, I can feel things remove themselves, and yet I am not alone, she is here. I can no longer feel her hand as it was on my own, before that also flickered out, nor see her, only the memory of her distorted features, frayed, at my side, vigilant. I am relieved for the recent change in her voice, the lack of concern over the inert quality of me lying useless. It comforts me beyond imagining. This body no longer pains me, even with catheter in the urethra and needle in my arm. So withered it was when they slid it into the vein.
The shades are dimming, one by one, the stars , like matches, I am not alone
Walls shrinking or melting, I am not alone even as the world becomes soundless
all anchors have been raised
not even her voice not even an echo
i am not alone at least i am not alone i am not alone i am not alone
i am-

head heavy
eyes anxious,
jitter
burn in joints,
thirsty
skin tone
sticky
wishing
to be something else
irritated
by the sunrise
wondering
how to be
the sound of a voice
that (one) hears
with ankles crossed
and hunched
by the pressured elbow edge
and the meaty palms,
on table
sweat in finger
/crevices
writing
naming ethereal thoughts
to fit words
interesting theory amongst this,
writing another day.

“Come with me, take my hand”, he said
arms outstretched, eyes alive.
“I’m scared, I’ve seen this all before.”
she shook her head, but was in awe,
“Forever is a lie and promises myths.”
he kneeled before her
sun on his lips, valleys in his heart
touched the ends of her hair
feeling as if this breath, was his first
He could almost
“No not this, this is old, yet new,
I was one, but now two,
I’ve seen what lies on the other side
It’s been too long, don’t hide.”
Taking him in her arms gently,
a hand wrapped around his neck
ever cautious, afraid the touch
might be real should she cross into the light
afraid that she’ll, one day, drop again.
He could almost
“No not this, this is old, yet new,
I was one, but now two,
I’ve seen what lies on the other side
It’s been too long, don’t hide.”
So with silence they dance
movements careful, hesitant,
eyes closed, unsure, they know
somehow with each step, a tear dries.
A spin, a dip, a giggle, a brush of lips.
They could rewrite the world,
if only they’d let go.
He could almost
A pause and frightened
he looks and sees and knows
“This, look to see, is what it means to me.”
And she forces herself to open eyes
that have been too bruised to see.
She notices time has passed,
line have been laid hard onto his face
but he turns her to view castles,
blue nights and shores side by side.
She can feel the sun’s warmth on her
and for once, she can breathe.
She clasps his hand tightly,
“How long, for how long were we lost
inbetween broken dreams
living in fogs and past lies
running in circles, to find a beginning?”
Hand on her cheek, he replies,
“Too long, long enough, not long at all,
Here is where we begin, we have this
and today and maybe tomorrow.”
Smiling, laughing, arms wrapped around him
resting her lips on his neck, she whispers,
“Always tomorrow and our lives.
Come with me, take my hand for,
for this was old, now new.
We’re one, us two.
You promised me the other side,
let’s go in, let’s not hide.”
He could almost.

there is a little man
in my mouth and he’s saying,
“hey little girl
get the fuck out of this
little boy’s face;
he’s seen too much
of little girls like you lyin’
to keep themselves drinkin’
in a bar like this.”
the girl cries
and the little man scorns,
“cut the crododile tears, will ya?”
there’s a woman next to me
saying, while drinking scotch,
“tape that mouth of yours.
your little man is supposed to
get you in trouble
like getting a chick
knocked up, or fucked up,
or get you cheating on your wife
(you probably have one,
or you wouldn’t be in a bar
to avoid her)
but that’s the little man
that’s supposed to get bigger
in your pants
when you see a little T & A,
not him”,
she pointed a finger
at my gums.
the little man
blew a fart on it.
“listen cunt-”
,the little man said,
“-a man’s gots to do
what a man’s got to do
and screwin’ bitches like you
is not what he’s-”
,he grabbed my bottom lip,
” -gonna be doin’.
you see, this boy here
he’s got promise and hope
and a college education
plus a career to boot
somethin’ you losers
know nothin’ about.
he is kind of stupid,
still wet behind the ears
endin’ up in places
like this, can’t help it, he’s a man
with all sorts of crazy ideas
and some maturin’ yet to do-”
,and he stood at the edge
of my teeth and screamed,
“so get the fuck out of here
you sad gold diggin’
model posin’ tired ass
good for nothin’ but a smile
and a fuck for the experience
of some unknown as-of-yet S T D
visit at the clinic.
take that face of yours
that’s been lifted
one-too-many-times
outta here
with the rest
of your sleazy self.”
the woman threw her drink
in my face and left
as the little man in my mouth laughed
and then,
after a few minutes
,burped.

raining a place,
into an empty
being unfulfilled
perhaps unrealized
this yawning of a somewhat
or
would I be
without my anger?
flowing into certainty
of whims
like violins dressing up
frustration.
rust scabbed windowpanes.
the unseen
rinse does unclean
,not seethe, the pointing out
of dust.
stop, go
rig-a-moral, pony
tell a story, is it gory
or a skirt?
flirt amongst the dirt.
don’t accept rides
from brides
of bribes,
is that a cradle
does it come in my size?
a fingerprint
on the mirror once told me
who I was.

no no, this was MY time, I had his full attention
but now we’re walking. He’s no longer standing
in front of me, soaking me all in. He was finding me
so amazing, I had him right there on the rails
and the night was coming and it was so beautiful
and now we’re walking,
his mind’s all over the place, not just me anymore.
His eyes are on the street, the sidewalk, the people,
the stores, the cars, the signs, all over you, walking, listening,
somewhere else and everywhere. And you’re asking him,
over and over “what’s wrong?” and his smile is all so strange
and calm and so far removed and I wanted to slap you:
he was MY puzzle, I ran down the block to stop him
from leaving, from physically leaving and I saw it FIRST:
I first saw that he was gone. And I stood there rambling like an idiot,
the sound of my voice holding him like my hands never could,
I could touch him, he was THAT close, but I could not
touch him and talk, I could not bear the idea
of simply touching him,
something about the way he stood told me
I could, but it might break this, it might let him move
and I had wanted him so still, so earnestly still he was..
but now we’re walking and he’s left
even though he’s right beside us. He’s not here,
he’s too spread out, he’s everywhere and still he smiles
but it’s so much wider now: It’s not just for me anymore.

One dreams
of the im/possible then, figuratively, lives it
as if it had been always
the corners of (their) fingers
all along.
You whisper
words (of love) that are not ‘love’ per se,
but everything that squeezes in between each letter unsaid.
as if I had been dancing
on rock-salt poinsettas
and the curb of my stomach
one foot extended beyond measure, a leap frozen, cracked,
ice-shingled,
and draped over my forehead,
a crown biting and bitten
by teeth and stalls,
strewn across speechlessness.
I found my senses walking
a dog the other day.
He did not recognize me
but said,
‘you seem to have lost
all your marbles’
you put me into ‘you’
wrapping me into kisses
I was quite the package
a bundle of lips that you could tie
with just your nuances
and an odd sigh or two.
Unraveling into leaves
the birch of my thigh up
against throes of skins
there’s only so much
that this body can do.
I think you said,
‘you’re an angel’
(I wanted to add quickly,
‘only yours, yours only’
but the dazzling scenery
of your breathing compelled me
to open my eyes instead.)
A tortoise shells unfolds
in, to the palm of my hand,
without a sound and smooth,
‘What startingly symmetry’
I laugh, out of a room
looking at a window, without sleep
but with the distinct impression
of your torso on my chest
(I lean over the rail with a pain
in my gut of rust)
today was the last day.
Especially the wrinkle above
your lip
I think I fell into it
when you said something
or the other,
you must’ve been smiling
at the time
or I was delirious, either way
I can’t see, or it,
or the way our bodies held
onto a figure on the bed
with a mind of its own.
your skin, your eyes, your smile
(every turn deserves another, one rotation
around the spindles and you at its heels)
I relive each moment before
‘another moment trespasses
the first’
between pauses,
your nail pulling the shade across my back, tracing my nose
where you gently bent
and kissed me.
You are the everythingthread
around me keeping warm.
I had but one path to follow,
the one from your navel
to your sternum, and back down
and around again (and again)
until your skin glistened
with one intention between us:
to break through this scalding
blue distance into petals
and toss our selves to the wind,
floating and free.
there is no other taste
other than the one of your mouth
that you place on top of mine
as i held you
in one place, in one time,
in one area of surface skin
where neither one of us had
a beginning
or an end.