The Good Fight

Sometimes, not very often

but sometimes,

I’m afraid to read my own writing.

I have my reasons for most

though others I don’t.

It’s the one’s I don’t remember

writing, I think

that alarm me more than any.

It’s the one’s that keep

coming back

in different forms over the years

that sound my silent alarm.

It’s the breath you forget taking.

It’s the secret you don’t tell.

After playing with enough language

what room is there for air?

It’s not very often, but sometimes

yes sometimes, I’m frankly more aware

of the sirens through my window

reminding me to breathe,

reminding me to listen,

reminding me to fear

not that what I have written

but what I’ve yet to right—

there’s so much life within me still

sometimes, it feels

I’ve just begun this fight.

Pretending

I can not keep pretending

that things were all o.k.

when in fact I’d climbed

that Brooklyn roof

long before they got worse.

You see, the memory has it’s way

of cutting up the past,

rearranging it like a scrapbook

where you only have to see the good.

I can’t keep pretending

that things could go back

to the way they were,

even before I moved to Maine.

Because even if I could,

it wasn’t how I imagine.

Second chances only work

the second time around.

After that it’s just sad.

It’s denial.

It’s that last drink you take

knowing you don’t need another.

It’s that expensive perfume you buy

in hope’s it will cover your mistakes.

It’s the pictures you post smiling

having almost killed one another

the night before.

When make believe becomes your norm

I guess it gets some people by

but,

I can not keep pretending—

I had jumped so long ago.

Happy New Year

So it’s your last day, aye!

Then you’re off the hook,

sayonara! ur revoir!

c’est la vie!

365 days of poetry

is no minor feat, especially

the third time around, Geez—

to say your daily musing will be missed

would be an understatement, I admit

I’m guilty of my daily dose, except—

Char, you’ve got moxie.

(“and that’s what I appreciates most about you”)

So when the clock strikes twelve

full of champagne cheer, Hark!

Hear, Hear! That firework’s for you

and a happy, Happy New Year!

this god damn ghost of me

if i could live with someone’s hope

forever till we part

i’d at least be able to see

beyond the ashes on my fingertips

and the cough tucked under-sleeve,

perhaps then maybe i could sleep?

longer than it takes to wake and find

who i’m not, or who i’d rather be—

cause it’s such a drag to smile

then to give a laughing nod,

that even when i do it’s like

my mind just says enough—

so when sitting becomes quiet

with my shadow and the curb

i hear within the darkest corner

that hope i don’t deserve.

and if i know you well enough

i know you’ll disagree,

still hopelessly devoted to

this god damn ghost of me.

and it’s hardly ever good enough

in retrospect you’ll see

that hope distilled in all of us

is that in which i bleed—

banana cream pie

with the sun in my eyes—

in they come and

out they go,

these spirits wrapped

in skin-clothes.

whether drinking coffee

sipping wine, or

devouring slices of pie

they come in droves

regardless of the day.

and I only wonder

about them

for as long as my cup ring

takes to disappear,

by that time they’ve too.

then it’s back to my text

of peace and war

full of satire, humor

and the ambiguity between.

while I’m left thinking—

sex sounds good, but

banana cream pie sounds better.

As If We Existed

It wasn’t ever fun

Even when it lasted

There was always hidden

A motive and agenda

Something I couldn’t figure from afar—

I needed microscopic certainty

That I’d have to disappear

In order to remember—

For them to forget—

That either of us had ever existed

Courage, enough.

I haven’t the words

Nor strength to stand

Any more

Of this illusion

Sealed in spit

And sketched by hand

Our world is done

What courage has man?

Our Love Never Wasn’t

I haven’t seen you in a long time, to be frank I’m enjoying the silence.

I can’t commit to the truth it lies, cause it feels kind of like we are dying.

If I made you blue, I never wanted to.

It’s just love and our love never wasn’t.

There’s disappointment in her eyes, as he speaks she echos with silence.

Neither one is good at goodbyes still they always seem to be trying.

I will remember you, if you remember too.

It’s just love and our love never wasn’t, it’s just love and our love never wasn’t.

There’s a melody, in a harmony.

It’s just love and our love never wasn’t.

He sang to her a lullaby, she did all she could to stop crying.

They fell asleep in the moonlight, just two heartstrings played on violin.

Some day you’ll see, in a memory.

It’s just love and our love never wasn’t.

Flipping Birds

The only places to go now

Are those best traveled alone

Where a fork in the road need

Neither argument nor discussion

And where judgements pass

With tumbleweeds and dust that

Dissolve like cars with the horizon

Thumbing South of nowhere

And flipping birds, eh

I’ll be just fine.