sad elite

trying to meditate is painful in the same way

as staring at two, not-quite-parallel lines–

it does not stop; it becomes sharp; it becomes separate

from the active "i"

when i am at night i cannot meditate

cannot sit still nor move without

crag-like mouths and kind eyes sneering at me.

i fail myself in the attempt to speak;

like meditating, it must be done without hesitation

caring too much is unacceptable.

i am silenced, waiting for your words.

there you are, knowing, and functioning, and smiling.

i am not like you these nights. 

i hope you will forgive me.

room for mush

come closer. there are things to tell
in hushed voiced, slippery rooms with silhouettes
hanging down the halls, snakes in the walls;
slither with me towards an unending
and perhaps small glimpse of contentment
not poetic, not nice. just, "i am."
us tool-bearing folk keep our words to ourselves
our handiness at the ready, worldmaking time
is any time; sit on my lap
and wait; i've built a clock to chime
on the thirty-fifth and a half second
a portent of something, to be sure. we can
measure in half seconds
but we cannot plan for days like this.

snowblown

"i've got hatred," she said, beneath mouthfuls
of love. "i want to have something that somebody
wants to have."

whole world turns sometimes, enough
to drop bottles of wine from their shelves
give us vertigo in our sleep
wake us up with cold sweats and ripped seams
"it's not fair, but it should be."

it would be foolish to ruin a good night's sleep
with anger. but who else
is going to make things fair?