The slammed door and the silence

The slammed door said I’m hurting.

The silence said I’m scared.

The walls between us listened

when no one seemed to care.

The portraits on the wall,

oh how they seemed stare,

where deep within night

the stars poured ever clear.

The door knob turned eventually

as silence did it’s head,

the sea between us parted and

the portraits went to bed.

While all the world was sleeping

with all their monsters fed,

the boy and girl slept soundly

no sooner had they met.

beauty pinned in a box

Pour-pour-pour

until my memory flows

black with the silence

where nobody goes.

Just give me more-more-more

and no I don’t wanna talk

I don’t wanna turn back

like these hands on the clock.

There’s always something else

another book on the shelf

it’s either fact or fiction

neither one’s any help.

Cause really I’d rather not

and I can’t bear the thought

all these wheels turning

but mine never shut off.

They say to walk the walk

if you’re gonna talk

always hateful and violent

beauty pinned in a box.

They were such delicate wings

see that sweet little thing

that you nurse like a virus

that could never be me.

So I just pour-pour-pour

and I quit asking what for

everything for a reason

not all reason makes sense.

If I’m half truth and fake

how much more would it take

to convince you I’m bad news

I’m your biggest mistake.

So give me more-more-more

things eventually bore

and all this method acting’s

become more like a chore.

See there’s this figure eight

I’m ruled and can’t escape

like the number thirteen

I see all over the place.

I’ve learned it’s better to walk

for miles— comfort —in thought

leaving alone the people

happier when you’re not,

around like a clown

bringing everyone down

I’m not bitter I’m better

glad to sit this one out.

So just go-go-go

go-go-go-go-go

go-go-go-go-go-go-go

go-go-go-go-go.

coffee

When Hemingway writes

coffee

but doesn’t really

write about coffee

I crave it

Taste it

I smell it’s sorrow

And pour a cup

As the morning becomes I

And I the morning’s passing

Just the right amount

Just the right

amount of whiskey

can make a poor man rich

and a rich man poor

it all just depends on

who’s asking for more.

Cleanse

You should cleanse, she said.

Pouring my whiskey

neat

Well that’s what I’m doing, I told her.

Giving me a knowing glance

that one’s on me, she said.

And this one, I told her

is on them,

pointing at our reflection behind the bar.

She thought that was funny.

Laughing together

was enough.