Categories
Prose

You Can’t Go Back

Idle twist with benefits, one, two, three. Desires that take thorns through skin, but never bleed. How many feelings does it take to get to the center of my soul? The world many never know. I may never know. It’s a secret that nobody knows.

Icicles form in summer skies dripping from my eyes. I am cold, and warmth took a holiday. Yet, I burn.

You can never go back. Ever. Back is a nuclear holocaust wrapped in plastic, so it’s toxic and can’t breathe, and skin ripples, and tears pour into wine glasses blood red so everyone can have one.

I revolve around a barycenter between me and the idea of you. Maybe it’s not the best idea I’ve ever had, but it seemed like a good one at the time. Shut up. Stop. Let me bring the center back inside myself and put it between my head and heart again.

Categories
Prose

William Tell Over With

A cornucopia of worldwide utopia, sending hope to both of you, betrothed to you. Caterwauling storms bring drops and clatters, stabbing through hearts into the heart of something that doesn’t even matter, and even if it did, where is it on the wind? Wind up and unwind, to bring pieces of mind to act as the stones one might use to cross the river of blues.

You can’t go back. When you do go back, it’s either a painful reminder to you of what went wrong, or it’s a rejection of what you once were, plural and singular, and you’re putting the ‘sing’ in singular.

Blood ripping through my veins, dripping out of hearts and coffee and goddamns

…you would say, in variants and versions and sequels, like war drums, because you had actually declared war against everyone. You thought everyone had battled you for so long, that you went through learning it, through experiencing it, past expecting it, and straight on to causing it. Certainty was the pillow you lay your head on, and correctness was the sheet you slept under. You had guns, and you had ammunition, but one of them was wrong, so every time you hit your target, and you always hit your target, there was a little bit of backlash – and there was always backlash.

I was never sure if I should take away your guns, or your ammunition, or stand back and bandage your wounds… but I was always sure you wanted me standing downrange with an apple on my head.

Categories
Poetry

Life, Love, And Sleeping In

Life imagines us piece by piece, creating us from raindrops and beach sand and autumn leaves. Colors, sadness and tranquility blown by the wind carve ruts in our skin, reminding us of what is missing. 


Love molds us with hands and caresses, asking us what we want, what shape we should take, how many times we should kiss, until the clouds and smoke bring us down to ground level, shaking the earth beneath our feet.