Weekend Love?

Has begun garnering
simply by how she adds flavor
to days of a seemingly slanted stance
Each time I attempt to speak
In a senseless funk all vowels descend
As she passes a series of
Reserved yet, callous glances
Though hidden remain their meanings
for this reason alone
in silence passionately I suffer

Clockwork

Usually, the option of social interaction

Is rarely honored amongst my list of activities

For years such strange behavior has been

Quite the cause to raise concern

Amidst the bowels of concentration, I rest

Observing the soft exchange

Of vowel upon meaningless vowel

No relations or interests composed

To identify and sympathize

with a colorful sea of strangers

May add colour to all that might

Be missing in my life

Yet, in a constant of fear I live

Running…

Just running…

Whilst striving to fathom

The clockwork of relationships

Digest

To much surprise, with great truculence I was met

Of all things I had expected our conversation

To be predictably simple

Oddly enough some personal relations

Had surfaced within the discussion

Relations of which were difficult to digest

Finances, virginity, vehicular independence and so forth

Why should such issues be the subject of immediate scrutiny?

And why should I favor opinions I detest?

Then I said to myself:

“This is the time for reinvention.”

“This is the age to make a difference.”

“This the year to familiarize what is rare.”

And on I carried…

Mary Michael

The air was bitingly frigid that Monday afternoon

When so suddenly she appeared

Only seconds later did I spot her peering

Upon a rather questionable piece of technology

“What are you reading?” I asked

“The book of Genesis.” She responded

This caused her thoughts to detour

Into mindless babble about the controversy

Concerning proper prayer location

It was then that I studied her

In an interestingly disgusting way

Composing not much of a difference

All else shifted to the subject of radio

A somewhat plausible means of elusion

Though as she departed nothing was to be seen

But the wake of what remains unknown

Actually...

 Possibilities become ironic

Where certainties do not

Fake are the grins that flicker

As tension paints the corners

Of things we never said

For each occurrence involving your face

The elements of jubilation dissolve

To that of a stranger’s shadow

Frozen, in distance we blend

Actually… possibilities become ironic

To repair what has misshapen us

And that was when the icy twig

Had snapped in two

+ Experiments –

The art of speechlessness
Softly took shape as well the hour aged
Elapsed were the years since nose to nose
I was with such familiarity

Quietly a scope once binded with fear
Was finely broadened by a ribbon of rebellion
The invitation was to experiment
With that project the universe refers to as (+love+)
Which in turn is often mistaken with (-lust-)
Where is it that we stand?

Speaking too soon
Has always been a weakness of mine
And I’d be doing myself an injustice
If a casual taste was said to be
“+ In-development-“
For now we can give and take
These open ends drifting through the air

Panic Albums

I

(October)

Beads of sweat trickled down her temple

Shortly, this action was accompanied

By a series of rough, jagged sighs

Each beat rippling rather violently

Just lounging upon the cusp of panic

II

(January)

The clocks continued ticking

As if all was right with the world

Disgruntled, she resigned.

Sheathing each young light

From polishing panic

III

(Present)

Washed away with snow

So was the fire brick sunset

Suspense not a moment still