are you richer now
without me? like
in that photo of yours,
standing on the side smile
artistically tilted to your
right a negative
space
of white and shadow where
I never was
because I was always behind you
carrying your image as you
walked ahead
kicking film with heel,
my mouth
spitting it back
with this photo—-
click–snap–shoot
rewind.
I know love isn’t
supposed to be
like pie: easy to make,
bringing people
together with its
sweet fruit
aroma pulling
me in
with the right
ingredients
like a jigsaw puzzle
you put me together,
picked up
the pieces, arranged
the
petals into me
again
when I wanted to
scatter myself
on the
ocean like your
promises diffused
deep shells
in the sea
never whole
but you put
me together
and left.
Some people complicate explanations to convince themselves into believing that truth isn’t as simple as it really is.
.
.
One truth is I can love you, but not be in love with you. I can be trustworthy, but not trust you. I can have faith in you, but not expect much of you
because if I did, that would be needy, and I don’t need you.
I watched your
feet crouch where
my head twitched
as you walked on
the cold surface
of that pale
and poked
face you stepped on
like pancake batter
never wanting to
press your step too
firmly on that
floor lest you
leave a trace
of your foot
on my cheek
an imprint that would
freeze and
pronounce
that putrid scent
of your scheme
to stab me onto
the moon
like a pole
with my manic hair
waving at
the flames of
the sun for rescue
drink my fingers the way this typing generation does,
a spritz of addiction;
blade words afflict your eyes with interest;
slowly, deeply; down your heart they carve
a light up your mind; my letters swimming
to catch you like reptiles under the surface
I know, trust me; wolves make pacts for reasons.
glaciers melting to let our hearts collide,
our faces exchanged, secrets spilled;
jewels in quicksand diving low; while you hide and
keep disguised the reptiles scheming under the surface
Eat my crumbled words like biscuits in tea
dipping the guilt into bitter neglect;
festered, spoiled candy, wrapped in famous leather
like reptiles ripped of their pretty surface
can you imagine the wars at home
that we’re ignoring now
as we pretend innocence; clicking and stripping
like reptiles feasting under the surface?
your appetite unfilled; have this apple with me,
you’ll end world poverty at my sight—you think, and
I know better, that I pretend to know you best
when I’m pulling you under the sparkling surface
“don’t be scared of this,” my voice a dark body; lonely,
blurry underworld, drowning your paper sanity.
a castle submerged in waves, land startled by lava,
overthrown and frayed by the surface
I can hear your regret, tasting familiar
I ate it before and again, with your like.
But can you taste it? The scorpion tail beside you?
Sand is the ocean’s floor, finally our home.
Only we can see that pain and taste this pleasure
of breathing like reptiles under the surface.
I hope his daughter doesn’t think he’s awful. At least not yet.
Maybe later when a young man breaks her heart, and her mother, still married to her father, would tell her what she went through with him to comfort her hurting heart. Maybe that would be a better time to find a fault in him.
Her mother would tell her, “When I found out your dad was cheating on me with some woman who Kathy told me was ‘just a dumb blonde,’ oh, I thought my life would end! But it didn’t, honey, and he said it didn’t mean a thing. We’re still together, going strong. And I have you to thank.” She’d smile proudly.
“Me?” she’d say, “What do you mean mom?”
“Well, remember that friend of yours, Sarah, blonde sweetheart with blue eyes, a senior in high school when you were still twelve?” She’d sip the tea remincsicing proudly, “You let us have the time apart that we needed with her as your babysitter. You didn’t say a word about us being away. You two had so much fun together.”
“Yeah, she was really fun,” she’d say, “but she was babysitting me since I was ten, not twelve, mom. And dad was always home.”
You like the taste of words on my tongue,
And the sound of my silence on your chest.
Hellows and Highs
Thumps your heart makes when
you steal my voice mid-way—
When you swallow my breath with your eyes;
The pleasure all yours;
An only intention.
Unlike the rot in your heart
I didn’t see this coming;
the slither of your venom running up
the spine of my conversation, uninvited.
Virgin was not the exchange to be had,
My sweetie pie,
If you wanted to break me in half
and eat me whole.
Tenderly you say,
“I’ll give you respect, if you forfeit your rights,”
This is the option you give.
A vowel cutting my throat.
Unlike your whispers of temptation
I can’t keep this going, undisturbed.
My waters now unstable,
You, a revolting addiction to my need.
Letters pouring out like sewage
from your pipes,
splatter across my screen
a violence painted in words:
“I will love you more,” you tell me,
“If you comply.”
Eyes narrow on target.
Standing there, i, a silent exclamation.
A tear in the eye unseen.
One more time is all i need
to unravel the ties of painful bonds.
Like a stranger in front of me
I look at you and keep you silent
Knowing it’s a strategy
to keep myself from pain.
And like the Arab proverb kindly advises;
I shut the door of which the wind,
no matter from where it comes,
impolitely arrives.
I remember the days when days had each a flavor. When the night was at times orange, and others, the day was blue.
Can seasons be forgotten. Aren’t they the spice of life in a cycle we call A Year of life. Where have they all gone. Am I losing my senses. Or are the seasons evading me.
These last few cycles have been eternally connected. They’ve been too sweet; a warm breeze in winter, and a cool burst of air in heat. Why are things too perfect here.
I remember when the Fall was the color Red, and when the winter tasted like blood on a sad day. There were buds stretching their wings on green in Spring time, and cool waters dripping off of shoulders in Summer as we swim.
All year long, anytime, it’s possible now. All these meanings are jumbled in an artificial microwave called The Middle-East.
Ready to burst like rotating popcorn.
How the day turns smoothly in the sky
grass green as it should be
houses, homes, neat in rows,
teeth hiss each other; grove to grove
.
Listen to the whistle in the wind
High pitches are sin not song on child ear drums
Don’t prick at the stab wound, mother,
it makes it hard to forgive your mistake
.
I am a narcissist, don’t worry though–I got over it. It took a while, actually. A few hours, but first I went through a bit of a panic. A painful disappointment in the fact that I am not as close as I thought I was to perfection. Oh, this is hard. I’m not used to admitting I’m wrong, or confessing a flaw. Well, can you blame me? Anyway, enough about me, let’s talk about you now. Would you like some trusting tea? An honest look in the eyes? I may not have perfection, but I certainly have honest eyes. Trust me, I know an honest look when I see it. It’s easy, I look at myself in the mirror all day.
