MG
I feel like a deceiver when I
dress myself in carefully arranged clothing to
hide my gauntness, and paint my face with lying
strokes to hide the ravages of illness. I wonder who I am
fooling when I try to laugh and it
comes out sounding harsh and brittle. I
think you can hear death in my voice.
The Life of a Paranoid On the Corner of Mitchell and Weedpatch
He pulls the trenchcoat of silence up around
his scraggy neck, his unshaven face making
scratching sounds against the fabric of his
denial; Furtively, he looks about, tension
pulsed in each movement: even his breath, heavy
with anxiety, is sweating as he tentatively tests his
surroundings, ever watchful for the enemy who can
appear in any shape,any form, any time, a once-friendly face
might turn traitor at any moment.He thought he had
counted the cost, but miscalculated: the price is too high,
his sanity has become his own ransom. He swallows down
the clench of the bile that rises, as he takes a halting step into the
too-bright glare of the afternoon sunshine.
Enchantment
Immersed in sweetest poetry,
Swathed in a rhythm so sublime,
Enraptured in its dearest verse,
I bathed myself in rhyme.
Caught up in the melody,
Compelled to hum along,
Wrapped up in the heady tune
Of your poet's song.
Romanced by the sway of sonnets,
The couplet's purest rise or two,
Swept up in metered mesmerism,
I lost myself in you.
It Is Finished
It is finished, streaks of grey
Zig zag on the blackened back,
In its darkness,
Heightened starkness,
Herringbone shows what I lack.
It is finished, broken pieces,
What I hoped would ever last,
Ruins around me,
Grief abounds me,
Shattered in one fatal blast.
It is finished, ever done with,
Never to be found again,
Quick consent
To firm repent,
Washed in my own muddied pain.
It is finished, whiskered moments,
Seeping in my dark regrets,
Broken, beaten,
Bitter-sweeten,
Sorrow-soaked tormented sweats.
It is finished, snapping to me,
Moaning out my sharp distress,
Lamentations,
Terminations,
Vinyl blackened twisted mess.
It is finished, gaunt and wasted,
Bony joints and aching limbed,
Emaciation,
Preoccupation,
Barren, blackest, bleakest whim.
It is finished - decayed -- dying,
I do what is deemed the best,
It is carried,
Wrapped, and buried,
But never laid to final rest.
Things I Want To Save
The way you breathe tonight,
Lying peacefully beside me;
The way you hold me,
In the crook of your arm
So protectively,
As if I am a glass figurine
Of priceless worth,
Which could easily shatter
If not handled just so.
The way we sleep,
In some sort of nocturnal ballet,
Our bodies in fluid motion,
Always touching,
Always holding,
Ever reluctant
To let go.
The way your eyes plead,
When you tell me
That I am
The only one for you,
They speak as though
They are begging
Me to understand
That my love is
Vital
To your soul.
The way you brush my hair,
And then move it aside,
In one smooth column,
To kiss the back of my neck
And whisper your sweetness against it.
The way you breathe kisses into me
And murmur
My own words of poetry
Back to me
As though they were
The most cherished gift
A soul could want,
Accompanying them
With the gentlest of caresses.
If I could
I would put all of these moments
Into a big box
And draw them out
For the times
You aren't here
And press them against the side of my face
And next to my heart
While I breathe a soft sigh
And gently cry.
Lament
Once, as I was preparing to attend
a funeral,
You placed a scarf around my neck
And twisted and fluffed it to perfection;
Now,
As I am getting ready for your funeral,
I need a scarf,
And there is no one to tie it for me....
