Love&Leave.

From our days together
I hope you learned two things:
1. There's only one way to make me cry.
2. There's only one other way to make me cry.
You don't know it but,
I only cry in a certain room
Inside me
Where something
Settles like a shiver,
Falls like a timber, and
Runs like a river
That's severely off course
And a little ambient,
Arbitrary and indecent.
Because you're my winter.
You're my closed eyes
That can't deliver.
You're a retired surprise
Burning up with a whimper.
You're a cult hit
One hit wonder of a thing.
And you make something in this room
Stir like an eddy,
Melt like candy, and
Sprout like weeds.
Forgetting you not
Is a problem still unfolding
A solution still with-holding.
I take sidestreets, backstreets
Passageways and avenues differently
So I'll pass by the place you grew up
As many times as it takes
Until I don't think of you as I go.
Now, this hasn't worked yet
But I cannot detail any better
The cacophony of relief
That rings in my belly,
Wraps around my ankles,
And boils my soul over
Just because I didn't leave
A piece of me
With you.
No, only a mark of me
On you.
Or so I hope.
The thought of the possible world where
Parts of me were with you now
Pricks the back of my neck
And jerks me awake at night.
It scares me to the stars to wonder
Where all I would be.
You'd probably have scattered me about
Bits and pieces here and there-
Certainly keeping some for yourself.
But I'll bet you didn't know
You left a mark on me as well.
Because we grew up together,
You and I,
In this room with the dead-bolt lock
That can't keep me out
When there's this glass window
Paired with this rock in my hand.
And when the smashing passes,
I'll squirm right through the tiny frame
And in doing so
Be ripped apart from the outside in,
Shards of glass,
Sharp as your stare,
Sticking out every which way
From every angular space
As designated by your
Sidewinder smile.
And your seeming lack of compassion
Or decency of any measure
Delivers deathly decibels
That you don't know what it's like at all.

No. You don't know what it's like at all.

come crying to me
& tell me
what it is that's holding you back.
& i'll tell you to chuck it
right true da window.
cuz one of these days
you're gonna go
right true da window
if you don't.

suppose a snail said
he never truly lived
because his house
weighed him down.
it's quite a shame
that he never heard
you'll never truly live
until you're naked
& homeless.

a snail's no more
than a slug with a shell
& he'll never amount to anything
until he admits that.

out with the old/
in with the new.
sometimes it should be
"out with the new", too.
like new junk mail.

not a big advocate of
junk mail. new or old.
squares and ovals
might as well be
boxes of barnacles
covering your floor.
there's no way
better for wasting time.
life's better in big slices.
eat it up.
nay; devour it.

you'll never get another
chance like that again.
count your losses
while they're counting
our heads
going off in pairs
around the corner,
seduced by the neon lights.

but seduction is only
as effective
as the desire is strong.
that is why there are
slices of blank checks
laying in dashingly
random locations-
to intrigue you.

but is anything
more intriguing
than watching fireworks
in your pajamas?
you'll regret letting fireworks
wear your pajamas
when they're returned to you
drenched in the lonely stench of sulfur.

but is anything
more lonely
than playing both
sides of the board?
checkmate.
when you play alone
you have to lose to win.

you winner, you.
winners do make fine
subjects for art.
so, i'd like to paint you.

not a portrait of you.
i'd like to paint you,

personally.

head to toe.

i'd like to.

green blue
orange red
fuschia
or however the
hell you spell it.
nonetheless it's
a sizzling array of color!

my masterpiece.

but, maybe for now
a sketch of you
will have to do.
black & white only.
a mere pencil drawing.
because, (let's be real)
who of us
has time to paint?