Losses

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I’m not afraid of my city, the way people once behaved as one might catch cancer if they came close to me.

Stranger hours bring strangers in the darkness and the night closes down the city.

In the darkness there’s a hiding place for everyone.

In everyone there’s a place where darkness resides.

We reside where the damp air creates webs around street lights

Where the lights cast only enough to break into the air thick as Texas toast.

I’ll meet you for breakfast at 3 a.m. for toast and coffee.

We’ll watch the steam rise up from our cups of coffee like dew around streetlights.

And you shake the dew from your mackintosh, remove your toque and hang them like a perspective on the coat rack.

Missing you reminds me of the perspective that life and loss walk the same road though we feel so alone.

And you say I’m alone now. You ask me to come back and love you again.

Again I rise to leave a man who is the loss of who walks along the empty street next to me.

I’m lost I tell you, and love left with you so long ago.

So long I say as I pick up my own coat from my seat in the booth.

And leave you there to feel the loneliness and look at the empty seat as I did before you arrived.

#keepitalive

#fffc

Dedicated to you – and you know this is for you.

Look at me

#keepitalive #poetry

I’m in the stacks high as a half floor of the classics held between the pages and wands and cups. Looking deeper your eyes burn holes with the investment of tonight or a lifetime.

Emma or Juliet or Madam Bovary protect the faces prettier than hers in the quadrant always mowed in rows – cut grass rusted between the notes.

Spiraling and bound there’s no word for the sound a girl makes when all the nexts and fortunes and eventides behold a barely audible thing. Listen to it boil from my throat.

Women fainting in the humid doorless rooms inadequately chaired. Sit there behind Heathcliff and expose those white thighs to Flaubert and smell those Madeline-scented clavicles, songs wafted up from hot pipes. B sharp A minor chord comes to warn us all to keep our distance.

That very day I left the mold blooms and heard the copilots speech, balloons began rising ever so slowly. I learnt that heat rises and a cold sinks like a feeling of mediocrity.

Not the virgin she’s reborn a little girl. Not a diving bell. Not an oven door to a living hell. Not the clamber of a piano on the short seashore with the conch shells and their perverse Fibonacci shapes sequencing his final thought.

She’s guarding my life with the covers of a book forgotten, in return naughty but respectfully right, on the shelf – so you reach her cheek in your dreams.

Fingers part my lines, as the stuff of your words open my mouth like a cannon. A Captain, a whale, and the man whose name you’d never know sat between us.

You still call him Ishmael. We all find out what his name means as one of the dead. That very second we pull ourselves out of this fictional life.

I died to finally read the last sentence, the words no one knows.

Flattening the curve of the earth, weakened at the knees, her neck craned around to notice he’d gone.

Pleased to return Dentistry in Suburban Phuket, forevermore out of print, it once ran cyan, magenta, yellow, and black.

Printed on my imagination the greatest achievement of self discovery.

I thought you’d finally agonize for me.