Did I Think of You?
Would it help if I used your name
for next time that I write
okay?
Or even your eyes, the color
of skin, and a hint at how you smell.
If I use these words, and letters that
follow, would it help
to see how close we are
to others like her as well?
Or him, and us, and them and
their latest kid’s bud?
Would it help the tone, or
theme, morale? Would it
make a bloody difference
if I cursed out loud?
If you think it’s you, then
maybe it is. If “you” thinks it’s
him, then of course it is. But
reality will prove
that our fiction is real,
beyond nothing I say. Is it not
surreal? Fiction is clarity
under a dirty, fogged lens.
Paranoia is therapy for a
lonely lover’s friend.
We’re in this together,
The reader and I, and
anyone who thinks
this pronoun should be “I.”
I’ll wave to you in words,
smile in lies, and frown
between a comma and “U”.
I once saw a face
among the words I spit
out. It was not your scent,
had eyes of more wear, and
colored dark hair. She didn’t last
long, only enough to pro-nounce.
But if I could, I would
introduce you two. As
the man to a woman,
seed in the womb,
egg for a basket and
mirror by a lamp to
light the reader of
a fiction’s lost words.
Do I still Think of You?
It spread as far as the grass
and bled in to the soil.
Sitting between
cracked cartons of broken
eggs, receipts for time well
missed. Oil and muck, and shitty
bad luck. If I have from you
a story or two, then our
luck will turn a buck. At least
we got to fuck.
Have I always thought of you?
Shortened hours from a rate
of four below.
Cut me.
Deep enough,
time to bleed everything
out. A path organic
toward the heart.
Didn’t have to,
wanted to.
Thought about everything else
I could do.
Came back again.
One more question,
I ask,
“Where are you going?”
Brand names, road trips.
Kevlar in neverminds.
Answer again, light as a
dove’s last fart.
“Right here.” Okay, then
why are we apart?
A thought of you, for who?
Examples, or
something to hold on to.
A lyric, or line to a
joke we both remember.
I want the detail; colors
of the walls around our smiles.
I want a point of view, an opinion
of how it all went down.
I need to see your memories, I need
to hear your thoughts. I need to see
if the words you write are
translated straight from mine.
I need the hint of a clue into you.
I’m a pro among nouns, you’re
an ass among holes. You, her,
him and them. The poem written
before the end. If you rhymed,
it would matter, if you lied
I wouldn’t care. Just give me
one thing to know I’m even there.
Waiting to think of you
You can usually find one
by tiled walls or linoleum.
If you ask the man at the door,
He can point you across the
hall. Follow the rest,
try on new clothes, check for traffic
and pick through tight teeth.
A calm before the ripple, a
shine among the steel.
I couldn’t tell you how many there are,
Or how many I’ve seen today.
But I’ll tell you one thing to
those who read.
In this mirror there’s another
of me. Who laughs, stabs,
jabs, kicks, grips, hugs, kisses and
embraces in you.
Did I think too much?
Its not important,
how I feel.
It doesn’t matter
at all if its real.
Once it’s done, written
in stone.
It can’t be turned. It
now stands alone.
The words were mine, and
came from you,
but you’ll never know who’s
who is who.
It may help to picture
puppets in hand.
different characters talking
in their own puppet land.
But you can’t have a puppet
without a left arm
and you can’t expect a fireman
to pull the alarm.
So why keep reading? Your
interest peaked.
Because sitting here bored means
emotions are leaked.
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