Intimation

I’m blind and so I blink
I’m bored and so I drink
I’ve not a word to say
And so I write them all in ink

I’m empty so I take
I’ve naught and so I make
I’ve not forgotten much
And so myself I must forsake

I’m numb and so I feel
I’ve much and so I steal
I’m cutting into veins
So I can tell you how to heal

I’m lost and so I wait
I’m luck deciding fate
I’ve so much to destroy
And so I need you to create

I’m yearning, so I say
I’ve nothing to relay
I’m offering you wings
Because I cannot fly away

I’m breaking and it shows
I’ve sacrificed repose
I’m giving up so you
Don’t have to see how the far the darkness truly goes

 

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Wound

It echoes like the pulse within a heart that’s meant to swoon
And like a swell, a storm in hell
When, slowly, bells and angels fell
As if a cracked and cold bassoon it was
…And always is too soon

As if a song so violent that it cannot help but croon
And what is done are merely crumbs
When all the sums are one or none
And oaken hearts are sadly hewn because
…They couldn’t play the tune

On strings they never meant to play for ears that seem immune
Where, to the songs, we sing along
Where nights are long and hope is gone
And love has leaned into impugn where flaws
…In deserts, seem as dunes

And walking far away from fields we’d threaded like a loom
We, looking back, into the black
We slowly crack from what we lack
And tell ourselves we’re meeting noon’s applause
…With these, our liquid bleeding wounds

Tome

Take my book of shadows page by page
Numbers on the bottom corner signify the age
A world of cursive letters
Set like links in iron fetters
Left like footprints in the dust of this now long forgotten stage

Set them in the unremembered sun
Where the shoulders colder grow and “shall we?” turns to shun
A home of insulation
And accepted consolation
Where tomorrow is a song that still repeats what we have done

Take my tome of light and see it close
Where embers dance like fairies in a world that no one knows
A world of would’ve, could’ve
Played on instruments of should’ve
Far behind this tattered curtain where it never fully shows

Set it in the pyre, if you will
Let it set for seven years upon your windowsill
Where light can eat the wording
Of the good and leave the hurting
For the tome we fill with shadows is the one that we can never really kill

None

The mindless obsession
The waves of aggression
The bouts of depression
The words of confession that still never come

The careful precision
The lie of a vision
The spoken derision
The cold indecision I cling to and run

The stoic expression
The need for suppression
The painful progression
The fading procession of letters as crumbs

The wanted collision
The lack of revision
The warmest incision
The final division of we into none

Confinement

Bound as a chain
To a wrist or a name
In the twisted design of resignment

Shackled the same
Like a shadow of shame
And the clock is a chime of assignment

Lowly, we stare
With a burden to share
Clutching cold like a shine of refinement

Carving our care
In the walls of despair
Etching echoes in shrines of confinement


If you find yourself wondering, “Hey, why does it seem like some days you just have these rapid-fire posts? It seems out of character…”

What’s happening is this: My IG page has blocks of nine posts designed as a 3×3. These blocks are then divided by a row of three. So while I’m organizing things for my 3×3, I try to grab my shorter poems for my row of three (because I started doing that and I just keep doing that), but my number of poems that are less than standard 4/4 meter is less common than 4/4 and other poems that are even longer. Soooooo…if I get to a row of three and I haven’t found three short ones while organizing my previous nine posts, then I go, “I need to write three short poems…” So then I come over here and I write three short poems in rapid succession.

Man Shrugging: Light Skin Tone

Sleep

I stand at the counter, pouring cheap coffee into an equally cheap cup.

“Hey, man,”

“Hey,” I say without looking up. I know who it is. That’s how life gets when you work at the same place this long. You don’t even say names anymore. Everyone is “hey” and “so” and “oy”.

I put the coffee back on the warmer. It smells like it’s been there too long already. I’m not drinking it for the taste.

“Shiiit, man,” Brian says, “you look rough.”

“Bad hair day,” I deflect.

“That what you call that?”

“Just tired is all.” And I am. My eyelids are lead curtains. I probably have bags under my eyes. I dunno. I didn’t look too hard this morning.

I take a sip of coffee and let the silence spread its legs. I don’t know Brian like that. We’re associates. We work together. We don’t go out for beers after work.

“So, man,” he says, his body partially leaning. That way that people do when they say, ‘You know I’m not racist, right?’ but they’re clearly about to say something racist, so they need to feel like they’re in the right battle stance for saying something that they shouldn’t.

Anyway…

“You hear about Krista?”

“She sick or something?” I ask. It’s a genuine question even if it lacks genuine concern.

“What? No,” he says, with a look like he’s confused or offended…or both. “I heard she broke up with uh…oh…what’s that guy’s name?”

I know he knows that guys name. That’s what guys do when they want to act like they’re not smitten. They play it down. They do it poorly. I’ve done it, too. Guilty as charged.

“Uh…” I say. I draw it out because I seriously can’t remember. I seriously don’t care.

“Anyway,” he says, seeing that I’m either not taking the bait or just not that kind of fish, “I hear they broke up.”

“She okay?” I ask. It’s a disingenuous question.

“I, uh…” he stammers – this isn’t how he thought this conversation was going to go, “I, uh…yeah, I mean. I guess. I don’t really know. I was just,” he goes over to the coffee maker and pours a cup. Using simple actions as a momentary respite from feeling awkward. “You work with her more than me, and I just…” he pauses and takes a drink. I already know the coffee is shit, but I didn’t care. His face reacts before he realizes he’s done it.

“Hook a brother up, right?” I say for him.

“I mean…you know, if it’s not a big deal,” he says. It’s a dishonest statement. He doesn’t care if it’s a big deal. “I mean,” he says with one hand up, “I’m not saying like, ‘Hey, bro, if you could ask her if she likes me,’ or anything. I mean…you know…we’re not like, passing notes in school ‘Do you like me?’ with a yes and no checkbox.”

“No,” I say, more an answer to the question of whether or not I like him. “No, we’re not,” I say in response to the whole statement. “I’ll see what’s up.”

“Cool, man. Cool.”

He puts his coffee down and leaves.

I have no intention of finding out.

I don’t care.

Work is a cycle of repetition. It’s worse than normal. The minutes grind like hours. It’s 5 pm in my mind four hours before it’s even lunch.

I sit through a meeting about some new policy that they’re implementing. I feel like I’m talking along with them. Meetings all sound the same after a while. This one’s just worse.

When I get home, I do it with a deep breath. With a hand that opens the door slowly.

Three hours later I’m on my bed. I write in my journal like I’ve done for the past year. I tell myself it helps.

I’m not sure it’s helping.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

I can’t use a timer. I found out a long time ago that they don’t work…for obvious reasons. So instead, I tap on my wrist. My timing has gotten pretty good.

I slow my breathing.

I wake up in bed, and the sun is that weird shade of orange-red. Like it’s struggling to get up, eyes bloodshot from a night of heavy drinking.

“I feel your pain,” I whisper.

In the kitchen is a note: “I have that thing with Claire later today. We should eat out. You pick.”

I muscle through the motions at work. I chew the nomenclature and drink down routine verbiage of a professional pencil-pusher.

I get off work. Shower. Change. I send a text. “Mondino’s”

“K,” she texts back.

I get there before she does.

She sits down, her eyes on her phone. “Sorry,” she says as she kisses the side of my face. “Claire was just…uh…” she looks up finally as she’s sitting down with a light press of her finger to turn her screen off. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just tired.”

“Aww,” she says. “You should try valerian root or…oh…” she scrunches her face up like she always does when she’s thinking, “Shit…” she says with a shake of her head, “right on the tip of my tongue.”

“It’s fine,” I say with an honest smile. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It’s gonna bother me.”

“I know it will,” I say. I clench my teeth. I hold back a tear.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just tired. Dull day at work. You know. Like driving on an empty highway all day. It’s sadly draining.”

“You should see about that job at Lochlan and Callister,” she says as she clicks into her phone, “Trish told me that…” she’s scrolling, “…yeah…yeah, they have something going on there. They’ll probably be hiring.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll shoot em my resume in the morning,” I lie.

Dinner is nothing fantastic. It’s only saving grace is the company.

I wake up the next morning and she’s still there sleeping. I kiss her on the cheek before I leave the house. I whisper that I love her. I mean it.

The drive to work is the same as ever.

I’m standing at a counter pouring cheap coffee into an equally cheap cup.

“Hey, man.”

“Hey,” I say, without looking up.

I go through the motions. I give all the same answers.

“Hook a brother up, right?”

“I mean…you know, if it’s not a big deal,” he says. It’s a dishonest statement. He doesn’t care if it’s a big deal. “I mean,” he says with one hand up, “I’m not saying like, ‘Hey, bro, if you could ask her if she likes me,’ or anything. I mean…you know…we’re not like, passing notes in school ‘Do you like me?’ with a yes and no checkbox.”

“No,” I say, more an answer to the question of whether or not I like him. “No, we’re not,” I say in response to the whole statement. “I’ll see what’s up.”

“Cool, man. Cool.”

He puts his coffee down and leaves.

I have no intention of finding out.

I don’t care.

I muscle through the day. I feel like Sysiphus. I idly nod during a presentation. I feel myself reciting the words.

I’m standing my front door and I take a deep breath. I open it slowly.

I listen for something.

Anything.

I walk into the kitchen. The bedroom.

I go into the bathroom last.

She’s there. She’s on the floor. Pills scattered on dry tile.

No note.

No last words.

I clench my teeth and close my eyes.

I go over everything that happened. Everything that didn’t.

I sit down and write it all out in my journal. I don’t even know why. I tell myself it’s helping.

I don’t think it’s helping.

I can’t use a timer. I found out they won’t work…for obvious reasons. I close my eyes and tap slowly on my wrist.

I slow my breathing.

I wake up in bed, and the world is still dark. The sun hasn’t even stirred from its slumber yet. A world of deep indigo and charcoal.

Happy

I grabbed a tube of makeup
And I painted on a smile
And I asked you
Are you happy yet?
I let it fade a while
And I asked you
Am I happy yet?

I used a tattoo needle
Made it look like I was grinning
And I asked you
Are you happy yet?
Saw the ink was thinning
And I asked you
Am I happy yet?

I grabbed a rusty razor
Cut a mouth that’s always laughing
And I asked you
Are you happy yet?
Saw the scars were lasting
And I asked you
Am I happy yet?

I tried to say goodbye
And hold my tongue, and keep from asking
“If I leave
Will you be happy then?”
Hid the pain I’m masking
And I wondered
“When can I happy, then?”