I'm always falling into things..like the eternity between thought and action, suspended

Borrowed Body

There must be something borrowing
 my body in the low hours
  thru the dreams I never remember
Bearing mysterious bruises I never forget
And I’m always tired
 in a suspicious way
Like my loaned-out body’s broken free
 to run divine
the night streets

Heavy Halo

Slow lucidity, as I realize the black of the grain of the doorway. Answering questions about my identity in slow speech for the sterile inquisition, and all my answers fall heavy on the air between gasps, searching for my breath. My body is a liminal itch, simply leftover, in waves of coherent disappearance as I melt into fluorescent brights under a halo of hospital signs.

Spring Noir

I sat here to stare, and eavesdrop, six inches from the eastern bloc and conversations I can’t understand. Spy stories only. I shook my notebook open and a star fell free, with faint recognition for this dead-drop relief. A nod from the past, awake among Sunday’s dirty dishes, remembered in their clanging dirge. The plot thickens, bright in spring noir.

Lost Lines #8

Even at my stillest…
…I am running circles of suspicious intent.

River

I am the river, arterial
 I am the tributary
  twined with many others
   swift in one direction
    at times I overflow

Monday, Mid-Morning

Sudden debilitation on a Monday, mid-morning. I am not here. Staring into faces of the future as they appear in the ceiling tiles. Because what you think of me matters and I hate that about me.

Ornate Eyes

Ornate and open. Fixed gold on the wall, fixed faith aesthetic for all my secret freedoms. Fixed frame memory for all my screaming one-and-all’s, my sex and silence, tears and falls. My inhibitions, intuition, blaring blues and favorite songs, I’m angry, anxious, tired, small…and always there you are. Looking back, invited into warm voyeur. A reflection of quiet conspiracy and Delphic disclosure.
Mirror.
Mirror.

Lost Lines #7

I have loved myself only in the names of faces that have escaped my memory.

Night Chills

I was cold, but
  I couldn’t move to
    take the headphones off

for fear
  of missing a note

no minute, no
  melody skipped

just night chills
  in the drift, open apartment
    and this
    song, my open heart

I’m always falling into things, like prayers of old enlightenment, in dashed nostalgia to remind me it was real...left in the short space between my fingers grasping for air.

Deviation

here is a traveling noun
and I am a traveler
on little deviations,
options, adventures

through the inescapable
map shifting about the
carpet, laid
up close a thousand paths

here is a traveling noun
I’ve had too much
coffee, laid here
long enough
and I’m tired of traveling

New Color

the color of morning
filtered by three panes
the sun fills the black of
my early narrow eyes, 7am
the dirty sliding door shows
dog prints of the day
multiplied
the empty glass in my hand
held up to the light, smudged faint
in translucent coffee brown
to fill the glass
to borrow heat from the glow-orange
of my fingers to the day
only to return in
the color of morning 
filtered by three panes

Long Exposure

something about the summertime
and running the creeks long legs
in the endless light of the solstice.

something about the heat
and dirt in the east coast air,
swimming through it
so it sticks to your skin,
soaked, sweaty hair across the lines of your face
where salt drips to your tongue
through the corners of your mouth
earning years of dirty youth.

and lightning bugs at dusk against the grey,
green lawns
humidity thick on our voices
screaming out of breath with
a thousand false flashes across
the street trailing our memory in yellow
streaks and long exposure.

it’s February tonight
the streets are quiet in my headphones
and I miss the summer sweet.

Futile Swearing

You chase it in spaced out seconds after your favorite songs because the lyrics left you reeling. Traces of enlightenment in every stranger, flecks of gold in your field, the light between two eyes in passing. There was the thought, yours but only loaned out. There was the stunned space, and a long forgetting. There you are in weeks, afloat in the same rooms reciting prayers in the same melody and flipping switches on the off-white walls with your fingers crossed. You seek the same lighting and a trance, futile swears to something from hot breath frustration. Maybe it never happened. Maybe you should light a candle, the flame glow and the plants shadow thrown to the wall haven’t been tried. Maybe the state of questioning is the only soundtrack you know.