Direction

I sat here
all day
facing in the wrong direction—
Looking outside.
Wondering why it’s dark in here.
Who reminded me to turn around?

Inbetweens

The next series of poems and images speak to the place of being in between.

The image below was meant to serve as a representative of this place and the poem begins this series.

In-between

The heart has no location
except when there are two.

And in-between it comes to rest
for a moment.

Ghost Flesh

Underneath that fleshy crust
lies a ghost who weeps
for a touch of sunlight
and a word that feels
or a sip of mother’s milk.

Starved
    from life,
        for life,
            a life.

The fleshy ghost surfaces
covered in raw nerves and dark red blood.

A new born.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spineless

Amicable smile minus warmth.

Regulating, calculating, insinuating,

Control.

Pre-registered response.

Fixed and fixed again.

Advance knowledge prevents

    the pain of waking.

Fragile fake—

or is it fake fragile?

Don’t know, don’t care.

Don’t lie.

Intimacy reveals a small, soft mollusk,

No shell.

No protection.

No spine.

Poison is the chosen defense—

The lie, the cheat, the game.

Held at arms length—

All is fair play.

Volume

Words lead one into another and another and another.
Muzak-like where cheap talk glides upon the surface
    with smiles and lies.
Endless repetition of the
    same song, same sound, same word.
Saying nothing really, really nothing.
With volume.

A counterfeit caring.
Where exchanges overlap.
Words crossing this way and that.
Saying nothing.
With no hesitation or regret.

Manacles around my vocal folds.
Guard the true and soft down deep.
Wit or tale gloss the glib.
Managing the dead zones with a meaningless drone.

Saying nothing, really.

Really nothing.

With volume.

 

Margins

The margins of memory
hold encapsulated moments.

Freeze dried morsels
to be digested when
the time is ripe.

In the clasp of two hands
a message is encoded
in the palm
in the blood
in the nerves
in the heart.

Messages set in the margins
connected by a

thin

blood-red

line.

Callous

Skin abraded
by ceaseless friction
forms a barrier.

Shielding the touch
from nerve.

Blotting out contact
with the living.

A residue created
by ignorance.

Our soft vulnerable skin
turned to stone
by heartless repetition.

Callous.