I’ve started crowdfunding a book of poetry on Inkshares, and need 250 orders for them to publish. So pony up!
Damn. I'm out of sugar. I'm out of cream, too. I'm out of milk, toothpaste, ketchup, toilet paper, and batteries. I'm out of strength. The day became too heavy And I just can't lift it any more. Leave the night to someone else. I'm out of compassion. I've looked around in all the Cupboards of my heart, but I can't Find an Indian tear. And just when I think I can't get any emptier, I find a Fuck And get rid of that too. I'm out of my mind. Out of reasons, explanations, Excuses, and justifications. I gave them all away. I'm out of names. No identity left. No attachments, No yearning for what might become Or what might have been. The Buddha would be proud. But I got rid of him too: Threw him out with the old socks And now I drink my coffee black.
Each chess game is its own tragedy: One king always falls. Or they both stay standing, star-crossed, staring at each other, eternally helpless. Your opening game is strong: Boldly controlling the center of my thoughts, thrusting yourself into middle of the board, and I’ve quickly lost my center. It’s too easy to see my next moves; but yours are elusive, unpredictable. I’m at a disadvantage. I haven’t played this side of the board in a long time and I’m disoriented- everything seems mirror-backwards. I’ve been jumping over minefields using my knights, but before I know it, I’m in check. My Queen is gone, my pawn will never reach the other side, I’m left with a rag-tag bishop and lonely rook to protect myself. We have captured small parts of each other piece by piece and now we circle each other, postponing the inherent and inevitable tragedy- one move at a time, star-crossed, trying not to fall.
When you arrive, the best thing to do is pretend the other person is already your friend. It's less awkward. Then unburden your day (a little), remark on the surroundings, laugh about stupid things you've encountered lately, and ask all the Where did you / How many / Have you ever been to/ What do you think / When did you / How did you find it / What kind of / Is it really / Why is that/ How come / Did you read / When was the last time / Do you ever think about... Death? Clowns? Passion? Eternity? Coffee? Refugees? The media? Getting old? The proper height for ceilings? And if, By the bottom of the second glass of conversation, You start to care about the answers, Well, then. Stop pretending.
Beautiful Narcissus. Brave hunter who refuses to be hunted. I wish I could speak to you, but since Juno’s curse, I can never say what I truly feel. I don’t blame you for rejecting me, a weirdo who rushes out of the woods repeating everything you say. The world has enough crazy as it is. So I must write instead. Not that you will ever read this, obsessed as you are with your own reflection. I watch you every day at the pool, trying to reach out and touch the mirage, only to see it disappear in a ripple of time.
But while most people think you are self-obsessed, I understand what others don’t: you are not in love with yourself, but the mirror image of yourself: The humble Narcissus; the artistic, happy-go-lucky Narcissus. The Narco that’s good at parties. Your reflection is everything that you want to be but aren’t. We are always discontent with ourselves as we are and long for that which completes us. Isn’t that so?
We both have our loneliness in common. But I can never share my soul with you, can never say I love you unless you say it first. And so. Stalemate forever.
You will never read this. But I will always wait for the day that you lift your eyes from the image of love and realize Love in the flesh.
Forever yours incompletely,
Remember how Jesus turned water into wine? You may not know this, but guardian angels, at least MY guardian angels, can turn tears into a good Chardonnay (or tequila, if needed). My guardian angels can serenade me with music, and have a special mirror that allows me to see my own beauty. They hold my hand as I step across the slippery stones Between one part of life and another, And whisper in my ear, "Yes! You can absolutely do that!" when I have a crazy idea that I'm not sure about. My guardian Angels remind me of my own strength when I think I'm too weak to pull myself to shore against a strong tide. And if I really am too weak, they lift me up on their wings So I can view my life from a higher perspective. My guardian angels know me by all my different names, moods, and awkward periods of life. They swoop in to help escort family members to heaven, or sometimes, just sit quietly waiting on the other end of an unuttered prayer. I don't know why, but I think God showered me with more angels than normal, because he knew I would need them. If you petition God at some point for your own angels, I recommend requesting the tears to wine feature. A distraction is valuable, sometimes. So that after you heal, And come back to yourself, you might notice that you have wings of your own.
My god, punctuation is sexy. I love a man who knows how to use his commas and puts them in all the right places, oxford included. And what's more of a turn-on than a man who is bold enough, confident enough, to use a full stop for emphasis? Nothing. Semicolons are sophisticated; knowing how to use them is like tying a tie or drinking a martini. (Be careful of too many parentheticals, though. They can signal weakness.) Don't forget the exclamation point! Have you noticed how phallic it is? Used just enough, it's super hot. Ellipses are seductive, you sly fox, you. When you use them to hint at the things not said, I can read between the bubbles... So text me, darling. Keep texting me until I'm a puddle of ink.