The Pedals of Dogwood

I can smell the dogwoods as the wind rustles their pedals to the ground.

The early blooming flowers of lilting pain,

lingering like the love of a dream not undone.

Vivid colors, bright and striking, wildly tamed.

And that little girl with curls running with me,

I can see the cracks of those creeks all so clearly.

And the mountain of moss that we looked out upon,

with rosy checks and hearts that longed.

And the water rushed with a cool, clear path,

as rocks lay dames for us to play.

And the fish and the frog and that hawk hurting,

We did the best we could to keep that fire burning.

And oh, how a smell can burn through everything else?

To remind you of the birds’ song and

your long, lost childhood self.

Mapquesting Morality

People live their lives like bulldozers without rearview mirrors

to remind them of their regrets.

They roll with the rivers, the sludge and slim that

filtrate and foam like a covering,

like some catastrophe of organic chemistry,

incessant and endless in their pursuit to perfection.

And they drive—

oh, do they drive.

Reaching and having, grasping and grabbing with an unclear consummation.

Directions matter more than the destination,

speed matters more than the space.

And when they arrive,

it’s all photographs and postcards,

dying weight and dead hair to leave behind

as they say, “I’ve been here.”

And no one can say they haven’t.

Yes, they certainly have—

I can see it far beyond their footprints

and the encapsulated click that resonates through everything like an invisible ripple.

And somewhere, because of that ripple,

a wave is crashing somewhere else.

But you haven’t been there,

and you really don’t care

what damage you’ve done.

Do you?

Reflections

To and fro this boat go

rolling with the tide.

Hands glazing over the sky

with ripples reaching out.

Memories are like a canvas to me

covered in white paint.

And I know they’re there,

and I stare and stare

looking for these things I cannot see.

And I lost your touch not too long ago,

I could taste the clouds on your lips.

And perhaps I’ve never known love that flies,

but just like water,

only a love that reflects the skies?

Leave an(d) Exit

We met in the wrong room—
cracked doors helped to echo our hearts down the hallways.
And they heard us all too clearly.
Nothing can change that I suppose.
Ice covering the edges of these windows like crystal shadows,
traffic smoking through the fog,
and it’s all a blur.
The baffled dream of a bored soul looking for love
like the lost and lonely before.
And here we are now,
buried and bellowing in the dirt of our own demise.
I never would have asked for it this way,
I would have fought for you—
you know that.
And it wasn’t me,
was it?
It was this room.
But I can’t change the way you remember the paint on the walls
and you always knew that was your exit.
Well, there’s the door dear,
just close it on your way out.

Waste

I’m making due with the ashtrays we are.
I’m not hiding my teeth behind a smile.
Not for you.
The negatives are what we run on
when we’re in the rain,
and when we can’t sleep.
I’m taking this distance and
I’m cutting it in half.
And believe me,
these things take time.
We sure have acted like we have
enough to spare,
even if we never intended to share it at all.
Waste is strangest form of wanting
but it seems to work for
a little while.

That Song

It’s a little bit hazy now,
but
I imagine that dust storm we drove through where
your coat was caught in the door and we listened to that
song way too many times.
That night on the ocean shore were we froze our asses off
like high school sweethearts cutting curfew.
And it all becomes so clear,
even the words—
and that song.
Visions of you walking away,
me pleading for you with pain.
But it’s hazy now,
she seems to have some way about her that reminds me of you—
it’s funny though, because you would never agree.
And it would make you mad, with that funny face.

But we’ll never dance in the desert, and she’ll always drive angry.
And she’ll never know that song,
even if she’s already played it for me,
thinking it was my first time—
thinking I was falling in love with a moment
that only reminded me of another I will never get back.

Glowing

I’m drinking wine under the midnight moonlight,
glowing with your endless visions of feats.
Sipping and spilling this wine that lingers on the tongue
like the taste of your lips, like the smell of your skin.
Sitting beside a hollow tree,
lying beneath its canopy,
covered in a white light like fractured bones, like miss placed pearls.
A blanket all the same.
I’m drinking wine that’s darker than the night,
like oil spewing from a spout
and I’m getting colder and older, and hungry and grey.
“We can only glow for so long,”
the hollow tree tells me in a whisper,
as the moon disappears behind the clouds.

Las Vegas

How much have we given?
If the mattress were burning and the streets were swept in chaos,
and this desert once again became disserted and dry,
How much would we have to show?
How long would we run together until our hands became a burden?
How long could you really keep up?
When the chips get too close to the felt and the waitress forgets what we’ve been drinking.
When the days are gloomy inside and the sun is an enemy of emptiness.
When the showers become beds and the floors become dressers.
When the phone calls are questions and pickups are the closest things to answers you’ll ever find.
How much would we have given when we finally say it’s enough?
When we say it’s too much?
I hope, my dear,
that it’s never enough.
I hope.

I can only hope.

Within

The things I want to say are sweating in the sheets and drying in the dirt,
in a poem and on a page fading with the dim, consistent light of time.
The things I want to say are lying naked in my eyes,
in my passion for you.
And perhaps this poems sounds as if a woman were writing it.
They say every woman holds within her a man,
but did you know we hold you too?
And did you know,
I’m willing to share that with you?

Especially Now

There’s a lace falling from your blouse,
and your cheeks are as soft as silk.
It’s seems that this is the time to remember best,
especially now.
Because there are dishes in the sink and I don’t have time for a shower,
my clothes are covered in yesterday’s yearning
and earning a living just means
giving up a life.
But it lay falling from the bed to the floor,
and I felt you breath and tasted you too.
And it’s all I want to know.
Because these people are lost in a concrete jungle, tearing at the limbs
of some self-proclaimed love,
crying over the puddles of rain
and washing away the masquerades of time with gilded greetings.
And you’re fading to the back of my mind
like a dream,
haunting me in the things I forget.
But I don’t want to forget you,
I want to endure
and live the memory over and over,
dying each time.