Slippy

The tongue slips
on the wet hardwood,
tramped in from outside
in the quiet, peaceful snow
fall. Head trauma against

the lacquered boards,
left in puddles, cold
and warming, warm and
cooling, rippling vibrations
in the pooled oceans inches
from the door frame.

Crying laughs, choking
chuckles, fun loving feud
moving from the instant’s
rush of real, swelling
heavy in the emaciated breath
of emerging emergency,
spurting splats on spackled walls.

Tense

The excitement of expectation
fades once again into the
mundane reality of time

Its lonely here in the now.
That’s why so many stories
are told in the past tense.

“I will be successful by 30.”
“We’ll get together Tuesday night.”
“You will wake up tomorrow.”
She is a failure.
He is alone.
No, you don’t.

I used to frequent here
with company.
We had good times.

Back when times was good,
and company was to be had.
Conversations lead to answers

or, at least, understanding
of what it is we wade through,
rippleless ether of the astral plane,

the rainy day sidewalk
chalk of memory.
There were expectations of

what could possibly have come
to be, set up steady, in work-a-day
real estate truisms, following through

as best we’d allow them to.
From nowheres, Hope opens the door
to the bar, expanding Now in infinite

directions and the chemical
record, for eternity, is altered,
showing the welcomed rush

a smile can provide.
The world opening to the crowded
inside, flowing like the heat

bitten rivers that bring and brought
all of this to be. The cradle of
civilization, flowing like a delta.

War

This is not war.
I have a girl back home
but I don’t long to feel her.
I will see her soon enough,
I’m assured.
I’m in no danger here.
The silence will not be
broken by sounds of destruction
or mortal despair.

When I think of my mother
I do not cry from fear of death,
but the expectation
of living.
Gangrene of distance.
Atrophy of time.
This is not war.

The trenches are dug,
the battlements fortified,
the frontlines starving to death.
My father
says he’s proud.
I tell him
I only do
as I’m told.

Cats Under The Bed

Sounds to me like machines clanging.
To me feels cold as shit
She squirms halfway

Across the state
Like the particle energy of things
Has a way of gravitating

You toward them.
Fuck that
I’m going to sleep

She says under
The fully decorated
Sheets of wintertime

Festivities. These are
Things that make us feel good
He tells her

Time and identity double parked
On the same street at the same spot
Always

Sweets shaving into gums at
Miraculous rates
Particles of the future waiting to be

Removed, dust, only possible
By past
An insignia, still

only once, no, maybe three times
now do I ever recall marking
a book on any sheet with

The materialistic ideal of my own name.

Jury Duty

Standing Still

Slow day holding tight to our attention
spans. Outside crafts are landing,
with unpronounceable names. Yet
inside, oblivious, we lurch about,
leaning on papered walls languishing
in repetition of other’s self
worthlessness. Outside, truly, there
are doors opening, on to hushed lawns.

Our breathing is peppered, mixed
with melancholy syllables, motioning
attentions away from our center.
Televisions turn on as word
travels gaseous through
expensive, crowded air.
The tears in our eyes holding

for the sake of faces, while cries
fill the seconds in the passage of
activity. The hierarchy naturally
deterring any annexation,
usurped positions filled in
by vacuums, outside, roaming
rushes. Eyes fixed, voices struggle,
minds whirring in mechanical attempts
at comprehension, sputtering off.
Exalted emergence