There is her fret, a kind of pout and stare,
Not at me mind you, but off into the poplars,
Littered with early evening starlings,
Noisily jostling for sleeping position.
I know it well, and loathe it equally robustly.
Though it may seem subtle, subtle is a tricky
Word, S-U-B-TLE, suttle, see how cleverly hard.
A gentle push, indiscernible pressure; a hint.
Subtle is smoke curling upward from her fingers;
Softening light laying along her pale wrist;
Eerie pitching hum of green spring peepers;
This tiny breath of breeze against our cheeks.
At last she mutters a timid apology, low
A secret code, being thrust bare into
Early evening dusk, as feathered rows cloak
Black branches and she leans into me, subtly.
I watch the cat roll in the floor,
Bathing in her own tongue
Seems so sensually
I stroke her soft fur
Afterward as she purrs,
Her green eyes not once
Look into my own.
Cats look through you,
As though they alone
And we are merely toys
Ready to satisfy..
Liken the language of love to the loathing of living.
Make sense? About how hard it is to love – you know?
And the times when simply breathing takes more life
Than your listless lungs wish to muster.
In these moments I stare starkly at nothing. A leaf.
Ants dribbling by on the window ledge; people far below;
Thin clouds wafting away, like wisps of white dreams;
The molded bread on the table which smiles cruelly.
In these moments I forget to breathe, so lost are
My real eyes and so far away has love slunk, sulking.
In these moments I could be a fish, water as oxygen
Inside looking out, as life mocks, calling – “love me.”
I thought she’d love me as many times as I held her.
Close, like the night, squeezing her side and pulling
Her against my stomach and holding her there and kissing
Her hair, while saying something soft and low against her ear.
All this time we danced softly to the whine of the speaker
On her phone, a soft jazz singer telling us about this love.
“Let’s go the movies Boo,” she said, trying to rein in my urge.
“This will keep.”
It was surrender and best to listen
‘Cept I moaned as she tugged my hand toward the car.
In the dark theater we munched popcorn as she fought
My hand of roaming lust, saying “watch the movie, Boo!”
I thought she’d loved me, me giving her the movie
And all, and still hungry for her full body.
Imagine my sickness at her showing me the ring, after.
“Why’d you drag me to the movies then, Day Day?”
“I don’t know Boo, maybe I wanted you to know I like
Going to the show with you.”
Hey that mutherfucker cld make that guitar talk couldn’t he?
I mean make that fucker screeeammmm.
Toe it up man! Toe it up.
One time I seen him play behind his back baby.
I’m talking bout – looking at the crowd and he’s playin
Full tilt, behind his fucking back and not missin a lick.
Who does that shit? Who fuckin does that shit?
I couldn’t hold his beer man. Could not hold his
In the end he couldn’t take that kind of fuckin
Magic man. To be that talented. For that shit
To be that fuckin easy to a guy.
Ain’t nobody knows what its like to be that
good but a few. And it kills them. KILLS them!
Its like, “why me?”, you know?
“Why the hell did I get picked to have this
shit come so easy?” In the end its just too much;
All the yelling and screaming. And for what?
Something they been doing since they was
Ten years old, man. So fucking easy.
Too easy to live, that’s the curse.
I would like to know where love goes when the
Monsters come out.
All this talk of walking down by the river
Watching the river boat captains steer big
Barges tight against the deep channel, up the
Heavy brown current has me sad.
In my dream the night before last, I saw our
She was holding that old blue apron you gave
Her one Christmas and smiling, like
In those pictures of her youth.
You were standing in her shadow
Looking out the window at rain coming
Off the old, broken gutter spout.
Same old dream, same old gutter, same
Blue in her eyes.
Doesn’t love care enough to stick around
For the monster show, I wonder?
Faded yellow letters make me both smile
And cry; with their blue cursive, neatly laid
Out like so many soldiers marching.
Weren’t there monsters then as well?
So I’m thinking about a monster’s old age,
Hoping maybe love will come back around now.
I looked at her while staring at the painting.
My gaze was into her strokes of blue.
Fine strokes with swirls, such as her tongue
Likely would make upon my stomach.
I looked into her eyes as she sat on hard
Chair looking into mine, curious but scared.
Behind her own brown eyes was a life lived
In hesitation, to meet the others of importance.
I turned again to her paintings and saw sadness,
Low on the wall, she had hung her shadow.
No amount of talking left us with truth.
I dreamt of her sweating in the yard, planting.
And again of her astride my life, hands on my
Chest, heaving herself against my bones.
Madness is waiting for the inevitable.
Go there and stare at it instead. Love insists.