“I’ve fallen.” She proclaimed.
“I don’t know if I want to get up.
Is it worth the hassle?”
He didn’t answer.
His words couldn’t form.
The energy was there, so much so,
he needed an aspirin.
Love is always going to persist
As the puddle, it changes after each rain.
Taxi cabs.
Street lights.
Neon signs.
Thunder storm.
Take cover in a bar.
Have a Heine.
Flirt with a long legged lady;
her black hair danced with her raven wings.
Outside
a vestment of stars
blurred
by rain.
A whiplash of light,
unmeasured fury
permeates
the sky.
Blisters form on my heart
Don’t think Aloe or Vitamin E will help.
With the moon in its fifth day of waning
and the artic air waxing,
the night was vast and cold.
I coasted her to rest w/in the shoals.
The tar river was roaring,
even so late.
The thunder of the big trucks
whizzing by.
She shook,
for she must have been cold too,
frozen more like it.
I tuck my hands underneath my thighs
trying to keep my fingertips from freezing.
My breath freezes on the windows.
Please listen, to the story,
The places we’ve been,
Her engine singing to me.
She was my companion,
my home.
With her,
I pulled one dream
out of another.
Borne by our very own lives,
driven crazy by love.
However merciful the desire,
one must accept the loss
and defy our very nature
on account of our inactions
resorting to our execution.
When you don’t want to feel,
you dream about death
transmuting into a ghost.
They speak so often of the dead,
slowly,
drowned souls,
folded,
asleep,
left on armchairs and car seats,
stinky.
A breeze through the window.
Roll ‘em all down,
it’s not that bad.
The dead do not doubt,
in truth they do not speak.
Which is good.
I don’t want to hear it.
These flowers in the vase,
occupying the half-finished bathroom,
the living room, the bedroom,
are silent.
But ghosts,
they still have that belief
in the need to live as sensuous beings;
however isolated they are.
Smyon-Pa 