seaside.

lacking fire you

throw the wood into the furnace

you try to light the dark

you try to kiss the love

throw the hand on the breast

throbbing hearts you

toss the hair aside

toss the clothes aside

still as cold as evening sand

salt water rushing you

then hear the whistle of a congested nose

then hear the ruffle of a rushed start

so slow the heart moves you

just throw the wood

 just throw the wood into the furnace.

the wall.

sometimes when i can't sleep,

i bang my head against the wall,

listen to the ache and ring

kill some brain cells along the way.

i guess it wouldn't hurt

if i put some music on

and listen to the lyrics of

a man and his guitar.

but i'd rather not.

you'd mistake me for an insomniac.

not to say i am not one,

but that i just don't know.

sometimes when i can't sleep,

i think about the words and

murmurs

of cars and strangers.

i listen to those sounds in silence

until the silence breaks.

i listen to those sounds in silence

until the silence breaks.

listen to those sounds ache,

ring against the wall,

a man murmurs,

his guitar breaks.

a short continuation.

for the first time, some time after she had begun to fall endlessly, she started to cry.

she wasn't sure why they came, since she had been almost certain she had accepted the domination of indifference and apathy. but the tears did come, slowly in line, jumping out of her wrinkled lines when they felt like it was the right time for letting go.

--suicide of a different sort, part 2.

if i remember

if i remember correctly,

that year, and the one before,

half my mind disappeared

in the chubby cheeks of a child

born by heaven, faith, love and truth

in a sudden, sweet, and forgotten death

seen by none,

heard by one,

felt high up

on the osteo

porosized limb

of a dearly rot

ting tree.

suppose the symbol of freedom from sin

came on that day of flying sparks of screaming light

in bright, bold colors meant for blinded sight,

when they told me not to worry for the poor choices

one could possibly make in life

said they in that wise old mannered way:

try this, try that,

taste the good and bad,

you'll find the best and worst,

you'll find happiness, you'll see.

and i said in that rebellious ingrate way:

and what if i try and taste

that poisonous mushroom

on my first day?

well, what then?

if i remember,

i was six?

when he first touched me,

our parents did not see.

i felt all funny, sprawled

on his back,

i don't remember

if i asked

for that piggy-back ride,

or if i asked for his fingers

to get so high

up, up on my thighs.

i moved myself

out of his hands,

but they found me,

again, not once,

but twice.

i don't know how i jumped

down from that height,

twisting my body,

from side to side,

until i made it

just that clear

that i did not like

two-legged pigs at all.

if i remember,

i was eight?

when she first touched me,

front and back.

at the restaurant,

there we sat,

i with her

on one side.

i do not recall

the food at all,

just the cold palm

under my shirt.

sliding slowly

up and down,

in small circles,

melting pentagons,

her fingers searched

small bits of me.

skin in goosebumps

prickled in fear:

i just sat there

in my chair,

my feet dangling in the air,

my feeling her ice

cold on me.

if i grew fat

over the years,

don't blame the hormones

or change in palate:

i just wanted some

distance

away from some

memories:

permanent grime inked

on my skin.

if i remember,

people blinked
too fast

when they first touched me:

they said they were looking

for someone named joie

who hailed

from this place named vivre

and it was always about

the moment,

right here,

right now.

and "carpe diem"

strangled the day.