poetry STORM

A compilation of poems I wrote last autumn/this winter… Please let me know what you think and get ready for some brand spanking new poetry in the coming weeks! Video is a bit strange, like its maker :D

I breathed a sigh of relief hanging my head
by your Christmas wreath.

We could do it the way
we would when we were younger,
remaining aloof, frame by frame.

Lenses between us:
obstruct us
watch us
censor hands
add invisible strings to smiles.

So tired of pulling, trying to be anything other
than the way I am.

I ask, if just for now,
keep me on your brain.
Soon we might just get the chance
to be the next in line…

Just think: what is this new machine?
What happens between a key and its effect?
I can manipulate. Read what I want, think what I want.
First, I could only play chess. Now, I have artificial intelligence
that stretches between rapidly moving fingertips. Words form between us,
actions have no sound: right-click, close the window…

Please be patient and wait until the end.
You will see your degree go down by degrees
in the sea of commitment and judgment
we have been in for a decade or so.
I sense there is already conflict occurring here.
Hence by sufficient assembly we can reweigh our options.
Liability is cause for public laughter but that is not a simple answer.

We assume you wish to simply avoid the survey,
pass to the conclusion that exists long after we feel each chance slip away.

I have so patiently waited in line,
sat in this parked car and waited for you to cut my pupil
and wash me in the river.

I will supply you with all the truthful context you can shake a leaf at.
We were in Key West, I was available.
You kissed me under your rural hair.
This brought a central steadiness to my insides.

Actually it isn’t necessarily
quite as happy as it seems: they hold hands
while you dream dreams.

The poor fools,
the program is meant to make you spend and seem very out of proportion
At least I have become more aware of that since my recent observation.
She will display this one the wall, while she models
out of style clothing in the mirror
despite knowing no encouragement can bring yesterday back.

Her eyes as black as coal, she remains a steady officer,
but her tone is most impatient.
He senses the end of a journey and takes careful stock
over establishing what is his and what is hers.
This is the sad, sad story of a few too many ones.

I like to call myself the recycler of spam.
What is its purpose? Maybe there isn’t one,
For once…

“I didn’t see you last night,” I said, “Which was strange we were supposed to be meeting our friend.” I called twenty-five times, really more like four from a blue moon room. Then, a cypress lounge where hissing, slurring strangers all seemed to know my name…

We grow old but our story does not remain untold.
We may lose our pets and parts.
Long after we are bought and sold.
We will turn to dust and mold ourselves,
even if we can never speak it aloud.
We write like it matters what we say.
We wait until someone, somewhere, makes sense of it.
Rarely does this happen but, dreams are not in vain.
I close my eyes and see your face.
I am unconsciously yours, locked inside your dreamy smile.
I hear your voice as if you’re actually in my room. We dance, kiss.
I remember this only in fragments, rendering them happy
half-remembered memories. Wake each morning to record
our encounters, that one day might grow to be our shared reality.

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