Like Goldfish

in a bowl

My love

never notices

the Elephant in the room.

His trunk dips down

drinking

he’s a lush—

a lush who always listens

and fails to forget—

who reminds me

while I’m flopping

there are much worse things

than death:

There’s always someone—

Oranges For Sale:

three sacks, mustache

and workman’s hands.

Standing by the on-ramp,

squatting by the freeway—

sweating for a sale.

Though I never seem to buy

or anyone else for that matter,

they’re always selling—

a language

we don’t

speak.

What a fine bit of trouble

we find ourselves in.

Always, and

forever in the thick of it.

Watching smoke clear

and like Phoenix consider—

somewhere there’s

a clock still ticking—

taunting towards tomorrow

wish ashes at our wingspan.

writing…writing…writing

through the pain, until

the pain feels like pleasure

and the words spill like wine—

writing…writing…writing

just for pleasure, until

the meaning’s lost for good

and the taste’s just stale bread—

writing…writing…writing

like a ghost, until

your thought just disappears

and crumbs scatter the floor—

writing…writing…writing

now for what?

When pleasure causes pain,

it pains me now to see

last years apparition in the waste bin.

There comes a point

When all you want is

The bad feeling to stop

Where you’ll do nearly anything

Anything to turn off

Did you think my love had died?

I need not a response—

Beyond the breaking point

I took a look around

There’s a pomegranate tree

And flowers laid to rest

We’re connected you know

By some universal thread

Like a bad dream

You can’t escape, or a

Good one

You’d do anything to fall back into

And with some microscopic

Interdimensional pair of shears

Cut

Cut

Cut

yourself free