Strange Days



These are strange days,
and I am a stranger in my own
skin.

These are strange hours,
ticked and tocked away like so many
stars.

These are strange moments,
stunned into silence by
broken will.

This
estranged now stands,
stranger
still.

..

A second attempt for Quickly, Day 22.

 

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Me, & You


..
You.

You,
with your hands open wide
and your eyes shut tight.

You,
with your infinite capacity
for rhetorical questions.

You
with your brokenness and
your crooked smile.

You,
with your sad heart
and your happy lies.

.
…………….Me,
……………….with my quiet secrets
……………….and my terrible truth:

…………………….I cannot do
……………………….without

.
You.

 

 

.
Written for Quickly, Day 22.

 

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A Voice in the Village

.

Before a silence opens
up, all day and zero stand
-still away,
the taxi sits.

Hovering on a beginning
for a short, straight color
-less wilderness,
the endless run to a city un
-played.

A sparrow wasteland for dry eyes;
endless times I depart,
a going that cannot not be.
Exactly zero years short
and a rider not out of the country
of never still, thoughtlessly we’re
putting down all of the poorest
…………………….least.

Bereft, none are sober in old things.
Off the universe, our hush
………was as evil
as I cannot doubt.

…….She begins:
…………….I need not this arrival.

 

.

.

 

.
Following Margo over to Oulipost, where it’s opposite day for an Antonymy (take a text and replace ALL of the words with an opposite word.) I switched newspapers today and borrowed these pieces of text from an article in The Village Voice:


After the music shuts down each night, thousands flock toward Coachella’s taxi stands, located at the end of the long, winding “yellow path” — a 20-minute walk from the polo fields. (The molly trail of tears.)

Once you arrive, the wait can be almost two hours long, and the drivers are in a state of constant hustle. Considering they’re picking up some of the richest, most entitled, most drugged-out young people on the planet, their stories are as good as you might imagine.

…He concludes: “You’ve got to have a destination.”
 
 

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Wells

..

Drawn
and tired, we toss
in our tarnished pieces of copper
and listen for their impotent plop.
………………….Heads or tails,
we whisper, knowing neither will do,
for our heads are befuddled and be
-draggled and our bodies feel like
strangers we must lug long
distances, heavy and unwieldy.
We wish for some brighter place
to be, but we’ve run out of stars
and perhaps candles, too, and
this dirty pool is our last stop. The
fountain has long dried out, spouting
only rust and empty chlorinated pro
-mises.

We swam here once,
do you remember? Long ago, full
of youth and anticipation
and the delight of un
…………..-knowing.
Finned pockets full of silver
coins and moonlight, we spilled
our salt to a waiting sea,
wave danced until dawn
and watched our tails
glisten in the sun.    

 

 

..

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Hope

.

Have you met her?

She’s got feathers,
and wings. She sings.

She’s a good one
to have around
if you’re down, or
drowning or frowning.

She serves lemon
-ade on the front porch,
finds a lullaby
inside every lull –
and her rose
colored glasses are always
………………………half full.

 

..
Written for Poetic Asides, Day 22.

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Square One

When I am finally ready to admit I don’t know how it will end, I go back to the beginning: The moon, bone white and beaten still in an inky sky. You, hands open as though you are trying to catch something that’s falling. A star, perhaps. Or me, teetering on the edge of loneliness, sanity, that tiny shivered sliver of gold up there in all that black. Looking back, I think I thought you were Orion himself, some warrior in waiting. And I, a damsel damned and destined to be broken open. Have I not spilled my whole self for you just yet? Let me offer you these last pieces, the shatterings of one unsaved. I craved that sky. And you were just a hunter longing for something to capture, conquer, own.

Me, Love?
I just wanted to be known.
 

.

 

 

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It’s Just a Phase



She’s born
of ebony, slightest
fingernail edge pinching
the dark. She sparks a low
hook, waxes forth, swollen by
invisible spill. When she’s had
her fill, she wanes, carving her
-self from fat balloon back to
golden smile, filing so much
eraser dust loose, stars for
miles. She’s a miracle; a
mystery, too. Is she
finished when
she’s full,
or new?

..

Written for Quickly, Day 21.

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