This February it never stops;
the haze that blankets the street lights,
the fumigated collection of pollution saturated
precipitation sits on my soul
and melts slowly.
I wager a place in this woven
sheet the wields contradiction between
its threads of space and time,
head and heart,
friendship and desire,
expectation and reality.
My bet is on progression.
The reality is
that I take a glass pane
and hold it up to my pores,
strands of rusty hair and calcified bones
and find a system of contradictions.
My time line gets corrupted
through tallies of broken check marks,
real lead tips that leave languid
pains in my shadowy cheek bone.
I am nauseous from the stagnated
clutter that forages itself as
a normal piece of my sanity.
This morose pattern of domestic
habit draws lines instead of pictures,
scribes tables as opposed to novellas.
I am lost in a fragrance of an insightful poet.
She has written my story of forbearance,
load bearing carts driven by me, the ass.
She has spoken eloquently of my determination,
finding greased chain links in my fixed gear
up-hill marathon. So I should be fine, right?
I should accept the translucent dust on my soul
as a sign of great aging, with fuller flavor
and a larger price tag,aligned for a more sophisticated
taste bud.
I feel cheated.
I am as I seem but not as I want to be.
I need a partner who shares my
post and pre-apocalyptic dreams.
I crave a creative muse who diligently goes crazy
pursuing her fire, to share my songs with and then
burn together on a massive pyre.
I want a lover to take charge of my ions and spread
anticipation on my skin, creating a craving where
we both win.
And as my fading memories come back
to me as acrid fantasies,
I find myself remembering the scent
but loosing the fragrance.
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