a book of matches

so i sat, arms grouped to me, my only allies, leaning backwards and failing to fill out the expectation of the chair of only being in it when relaxed.

the snow files away futures, valentine's morning, alone. yesterday you left me in the stark white darkness, grasping. i'm not sure where the road turned or how (the chemical makeup of roads eludes even the vastest minds of physical science and love) puts coffee to lips, awaits answers in the wind, finds sinnuous the fallout (we can watch, marking pages, gieger calendars and works out problems of fear and loneliness: awake, halfway) and knows the chair i'm in isn't made to lean back in, but i can make it, back on hind legs, and a careful balance must be maintained, the focus of which, keeps me from you (in thought) just now and wonderfully.

temporary. expressionless: losing.

there is a strangeness to knowing it won't be your name on the caller i.d. next time it lights up, or the time beyond that. it's fearful, with what is flailing arm tragedy's and maybe not once more. I click back through histories in emails and phone calls in the storage closet of my mind, wipe answers away with worry and due dilligence to the fact that i thought of you even more in strange time signatures, waited in wailing wall-like villages of the heart and soul, spent: hours. whole holy.

so mixed drink, spiked drink loveliness, you were (still are) tragic goddess of my last and suffrages, more. this feeling, of maybe tommorrow, maybe ten years, maybe never and explanations confound physics experts, mass exodus from the crouching places a man keeps dark, but knows, doesn't know they are there. and how's the weather where you are?

today, marched through slim snow flakes piles on green green grass, liken you to strong boxes and perfections known only to worn-through saints with all their shirt tails showing and bones peeking through their flaming skin.

instead, i'll watch one bottle disapear, think on explanations i might prefer to have, or might not. think of what might make it seem, even this, so terribly endearing, and likely as not, likely as sunrises tommorrow, i'll succeed, find ways to make of you more beauty than even you had, have, turn over the days slowly, deliberate (as even "the sea and the salty breeze") leans over me and wakes from strange nightmarish days thought on in vast villas near seaside mediterranean night. grows the legend of you, but by default. subtle, raging.

work fingers wired through and place motions that weren't previously aware of their existence to keys and strings, linger too long on iron & wine, boorish me, sometimes.

so calm cool and collected right? what happened to that? i put it to page like fractal arguments and worry-lips (you have so much beyond, looks are not you're whole, or even only partial) and count backwards, as chess-master makes magic from dust and seething sea tides, argues benevolence to the sidelines. cool calm collection is violated, looking back, when love melts like tides into the sand, leaving trapped air, and escape comes in foam breaks and undertow lurches in to pull out (you'll find it, you'll find it)

last night three comments made to me, and all of your raging beauty, haunting- but that of you is so disapearing, rather i yearn for the underside, the tiny skin beneath the skin, the skin-shade of your mind and movements, could have been the one to stick it through with you, make it, but wasn't, or at least not now.

love moves mountains, but destroys the civilizations in it's path, grows weary: falling out or in is tiring and dumb-struck, where you want to be.

so purges sensory timelines, guidelines bent on ruination or feeling out the future for complex solutions for the stomr, probes onward onward. dangles cigarette outdoors, watches snowfall, somewhere (across the way, a gas main breaks and the sky floods with mist, scented) they'll be asking us any minute to evacuate and rows and rows will file out and slip into their cars, move towards bus stops and carry on like nothing out of the ordinary has happened. and it hasn't i don't suppose. old men smile when i go into all of this (tested theory, five minutes before now).

but i'm here, trying to catalogue it all, put it down, memorex what i apparently can't feel see or know, and i think maybe it's you (that i can't feel see know) and this is how, the method of choice, for amputation, my dark sacriliedge writhing, for deeds unknown is drawn forth from the well of punishments, dolled out by you, to me, a faded envelope, manilla, and withing it, the losing of you. the milk-carton future of the history of us, i'll try to keep it pressed, fabulous of the great and wandering while-it-was-and-lasted and maybe, if fortunate, so will you.

maybe you will.

and maybe (as fortune might or might not have it) one day you'll wonder, think back over the dry-word hills and watch snow fall and think of how i spilled fortunes (tiny word fortunes, all i have) into the love and lust and gathering of you into my life, you make the nexus of life or loss so beautiful. even to have had you to lose is worth the hanging hour of coming onwards. yardarms life grates on gravel road cineplex and passing hours are just working thorugh it, working past it, a haze, a dome light on and singing shitty songs far too loudly in my car: this is how it happens with me, tries then turns over and sleeps, works away (one day zen-like, the the next is fearful, launching fear into my skull, speed-freak thought patterns that can be analyzed by experts to find the core of what having or thinking had or loved and being loved, imagined and breaks us all apart.

it happens in every culture. remembers chinaski: "many a good man has been put under the bridge by a woman" and lingers thought on, salvation is being a writer. at least the once, casual strength yodels upward, a spreading of the wings, then once maybe. the struggle of quantum mechanics in the vastness of outrageous techno-garble and super-microscopes is in the laid down misery of knowing that even at it's best it only predicts probabilities and so many of them, so many, like light tests and neils bohr hypothesis and photon-wave theory, many worlds, wheeler, present dictates past (and ancient) and suddenly i'm finding water where it only grows in instants of missing-out, of not getting, or having had but gone, like the flowers of yester-year (we try, don't we?) and then make ploys at survival wrenching out from now till then, one boat to another, maybe you were missing something, there could be a better overall package or a what-have-you, or maybe you still love me strangely somehow, and always will in that once-upon-a-time way, as past makes us who we are and readies us for real happenings and: happiness: your root is in the goings-on (don't you see?).

somberness, you find me well enough, i shouldn't have designed my own site-map, cranial scan shows disillusioned press pass at life, and passersby will wonder why or if, but schematics draw you in, blueprints for the wreckage of a man (soon or never, forever, once, beyond: crooning) for you to follow, to weaken me is easy, if you know how if you know (and you do, always have).

peice-meal linger on and wash out (you turn cold sometimes) like the october sun drenches tall trees (growing and death comes) we leave like asteroid trails that prove we were here, we did this, we loved like so and on (on, on, on, further, you try and less than anything, we were more)

or waiting, i somehow see this as happening, i will.

fist tries out nobel laureate skies we wander fingers along the path, hears leaves crunch below me, you: gets nothing but smiles along and we try so hard (not so hard) and working was a matter of time, or not working burdens us. i miss you, though.

already, worse and craving, pull in my arms and pull hat low, reminded of little candies we ate as a child and the reaction to our tear ducts. gets it with mixed feelings.

i see you there, still awake, closing eyes and lips around whatever mass or comes something fearful is as you are and motion lets us try, perpetuate your dreams, somewhere, you're in his arms or your own arms, (like me) and learning some new songs working out lyrics to the future and how you'll make it happen, how it'll be if only and once...

i meant it (for clarity) and you'll see one day, though not without stars or fingers pressed to another set of skin, yours, his, one month and drying out: collapse yourself, and calm: more happening now, you get it.

when you back it all down, turn it all out, construction folleys of adventure and we had it once and for a little while (backs turned) we let margins slip and moving between clouds was just too hard (you see how i'm trying to play it out or bounce it upwards, relief the shape of answers built in mind-tombs of wonder (you are the eighth) with it is something everyone there has hold of, but not you (not you just now, one day you'll have it down)

now roads merge, lanes fade to mirth and you can giggle destructions away but maybe you don't mean it and that's just how it happens: you put me through walls, head-first. don't think about it, let it go, move on (what's to be done) one can never live their life for another, there or not, turns out eagerness gets the best of you sometimes, like me. (darling, you mesmerize, lurk angel beautiful)

someday is the easiest of words just now and you're probably thinking the same thing, but for different reasons in different cities (maybe cluster).

part of you will probably always think of what i'd say when someone says "oh, i forgot to tell you something" and someone will soon if not now mirth dries up, try (just try) and move with the landscapes. what happens now?

i am not your ghost, just skeleton eyes, and leaning back in my chair, i see your hours float by.

2004-02-14 | 3:53 p.m.
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