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Rudimentary Silence

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Only in the slightest

Contradictions find us

Taking a piss in the back of a waiting

Rudimentary silence

Little acts of violence

Testing the waters like leaving the bathtub

Full of standing water

Babies left to wander

Dipping our beaks in a pool not so shallow

Now—

Actions without reason

God I’ve got this feeling

Down like the old folks whose tennis balls are wearing out

Obligations find us

Contradictions bind us

Tight like a truckers hitch secured to nothin but

Ourselves if we’re willing

To hold someone who’s willing

To kick the creator for all the stupid shit we’ve been through

Now—

Everybody wants their own way

Standing on clouds there’s no reason to shout out loud

When everybody gets their own way

I can guarantee somebody won’t be pleased (laugh out loud)

French New Wave Lifestyles

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She seemed relatable

like a French new wave film—

Her hair was tangled by

the absence of the thrill—

My mind fell blind in the dark

each movement felt removed

In black and white it all looks like

some senseless noir doom.

Descending ladders with a

backwards forward view—

Replaced reminders taken

for some other you—

She stepped calm in the light

another foreign move

In black and white it all seems like

you just might make it through.

Now there’s a towel on the floor

white as a dove

Transcending shadows as if

orders from above

The clock just turns and spins

a spiral of what’s lost

In black and white it all feels like

we’re dying to be caught.

In black and white it all looks like

there’s nothing to turn off.

Acting like you don’t know is an art in itself

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It’s hard

To see

Out this pit

Of despair

When you’re down

On your knees

In the cold

Summer air

And it’s hard

To conceive

Memories

When you care

Looking for

What you lost

In a house

Built of mirrors

And it’s hard

When you know

All of this

Is a joke

Convinced

Or exposed

Either way

There’s a host

To obey

Or believe

In what you

See in me

That’s alright

It’s ok

Sip your honey

and tea

I just thought

You should know

I don’t know—

Yeah I know

Tchotchke

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You read my sadness

Word for word

Like I’m a novelty

Then put me down

Back in my place

Some oldtime tchotchke—

And I wonder how it feels,

Window shopping too?—

From the corner of my gladness

To the outskirts of your sadness

Where nothing is for certain

And no one is to blame

Except we don’t glimmer anymore

Or sparkle like we used to—

Ornamental at our best

Tokens from another life

Failure of odds

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I was in love with the odds of failure

so I did all I could to succeed, and did.

And didn’t.

All in the same go, all in the same stop.

Another type of love—

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I was a handful and

she had very small hands,

handing me love I

couldn’t handle and

it was no secret

we knew eachother’s secrets

quietly speaking through tears

and farewell in exchange

for another type of love—

one we both could afford.

Holiday On Ice.

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Now all we have’s the memory.

I’ll keep the one to forget

if you keep the one to remember.

The one never to forget,

the ones kept best from afar,

and the occasional Holiday on ice.

The Magnificent Magician

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Don’t call me by my name—

Call me The Magnificent

Magician Of First Impressions,

where all the world’s a stage

and every player has his part,

where women played by men

no nothing of the difference,

where fragile lines seem effortless

written by the long hand of night,

where smoke is thick and endless

in the mirrors of wasted time.

Call me the Magnificent

Magician Of False Positives,

where anything seems possible

until commitment to the narrative,

where hope is built on trust

and not the other way around,

where kindness is a give and

not taken as an afterthought,

where love is solitaire

and not a solitary place to die—

Call me The Magnificent

Magician if you must,

where pain relies on burden

a burden I can trust,

and ABRACADABRA heals

this feeling of disgust.

Tongues

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I’ve tasted many tongues,

but saved the slammed doors

and holes in sheet rock for

the one’s I’d somehow outgrown,

knowing them sincere like

an afternoon alone or

tastebuds in the morning sun—

after enough drinks to make me social,

after enough drinks to make me honest,

after enough drinks to make me pure—

unwilling to apologize for the bad taste

tongue tied like a little kid hoping

to be lost in the shuffle and left alone,

where features seize to be and

voices make no sound where

nobody feels and nobody hurts.

Nowhere

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We’re all just kind of nowhere, aren’t we?

When we convince ourselves we’re not,

that we’re somewhere worth being?

Then like flypaper pulled apart

time disconnects from space

and we’re left stuck

sticking to the things we swore we’d part.

And just like that

we’re nowhere again,

left waiting to forget how good it felt

to be somewhere.