Everyone always says
that it’s the little things
that matter.

Where are the little things?
I can’t find mine.
And it’s been six weeks.

I’ve looked in the wardrobe
and in your hair.
They weren’t under there.

I scanned the grocery isles.
I asked the old lady,
the one with a limp.

I checked under the couch,
and behind the fridge.
They must be really…little.

Or are the little things actually big?
Am in looking in the wrong places,
because someone told a fib?

Are they the wine from last
night I can still taste
on the inside of my cheek?

Perhaps they’re under my pillow?
Oh, wait, that’s the t-shirt
you left here last week.

There are winds and rains
that reach you on these rooftops
and they don’t seem to phase you

Your soul was escaping that night,
though,
you told me.

So we stood for a couple of hours
and counted things quietly
and self-referenced our past lives
so that nobody else could hear us

There were insects crawling in your hair
but you didn’t notice them. You never had.
They’d been with you a long, long time I think.

And the starlight did not do those billboards
justice,
they just glared so that the giant smiling faces
were on what was like fire.

So I kept my coat buttoned and
kept pulling down my hat so
it would not fly away, and you were
preoccupied too, and there we were

I think I saw it all in a dream, once.
It wasn’t as cold as I remember
but there was quite a lot of wind and rain,
that much I am certain of.

It was Sunday.

 

Crashing out my door and into your palms. It was intentional –

you had a coat done up tightly around you

keeping me out and

keeping you safely inside, only just.

 

Carlton. Young bones rattling around

the pub like loose matches.

You slipped in beside me like a secret,

your blue scarf keeping the words in.

Keeping my face out.

 

It was Sunday.

You leant against my stool like you needed to.

I couldn’t blame you.

You came to find me as if I had stolen

your tongue and had it in my handbag.

You came to find me like I knew you would,

to hand me your liver,

and your lungs that should know better,

 

so I took them.

 

It was Sunday.

I think we’d already decided.

 

i could do this,
i could be your inspiration for the night.
should i execute it correctly you’d invite me
back for more sessions wherein i do something
inspiring.
of course as a writer i’d desire that inspiring
deed to be writing. i’d throw words out on the fridge
like magnets from a pre-made set.
but each and every word, as it landed on the magnetic
surface would shock you with it’s brilliance.
i’d be precise in a way you’re not used to.
i’d speak truth through verbs you’ve over-used.
and trite would be the furthest thing from
your imagination as i serve you inspiration for the
day.

i could do this.
even without the rhythm to back me up, and the years
spent on this one verse for each song. i could be your
inspiration for tonight.

The pressboard underneath you
will only hold you up for so long.

I fear you are in the waiting
for a long, hard fall.

Try not to take anyone else out
on your way down.

you’d not want a black soul like mine
which would suck the color from the
dandelion fields who breath only for sun.
and on the days when children’s laughter
sounds like a trainwreck approaching.

you’d sit and say “let there be nothing
but which i approve” and dig yourself
a hole somewhere out in the woods.
and in there it would be warm
even during the coldest hours
emanating enough heat for just you.

this cup better than yours.
these thoughts hung on for hours.
on this here flooring,
we grow shag carpeting,
and swear these drugs aren’t ours.

With a pipe in his mouth and a stern
unscolding look beneath it Mr. Hugo
climbed in to the passenger seat of
the large, weathered Luxury car from
another era which I had recently taken
to driving and we began, floating
easily down the roads and byroads
of the town in which we had found ourselves

We spoke softly of the other cars
on the road, which seemed to speed
past us with abandon and an uncaring,
foolish sort of gait. We considered that
the drivers had no real concept of the
power they were handling. That they
did not know they could change the world.

I changed lanes easily as the powerband
shifted and before I knew it we were on
a highway heading north and out of town.

Though another poor woman who we passed
was not so lucky in her green minivan,
we did not kill a soul that day
and so the topic ended
as the blue lights flashed
and we digressed.

nothing to read
no inspiration to write
i cannot browse the interwebs
for much longer without
a slow atrophy of my
creativity.

nothing to read
no inspiration to write

Our wonder soon turned to the ways
and wiles of our fellow woman, particularly
a wife that Mr. Hugo had taken and
had run in to a stretch of rather
unfortunate luck with concerning her
comings and goings and other parts.

There were conclusions made, but alas
none could be delivered so surely for
the mind of the human being is a strange
and difficult-to-manage thing, so even
with all the thought and consideration
that we two could muster, eventually
we found to cede to be a simpler way.
Soon the thing had drifted
and we pair did digress.

I spoke with Mr. Hugo some time ago
and asked him, from his professional
point-of-view how the gentleman in question
had come to so vegetative a state as
his current delusion would require of him

He responded simply that he did not know
and that it was not so important, was it?
That the gentleman in question was
roiling as a signal through an out-of-phase
loudspeaker should be topic enough
to pontificate upon,
and so we digressed.

I get to this point and I’ve nothing to say.
So what then, where to?
At least the sentence can end with a preposition; this is poetry after all.
But that’s not enough; there has to be more.
I’m aching for it: diagnosable withdrawal.
The way one would notice the absence of food,
or at the very least, the recognition of malnourishment.
Where’s the proof?
In the un-inspiration, complacency even.
Dragged out, beat down, by a lack of production.
Gears grinding in un-oiled oxidation.
Akin to exercising: tiring, yes, but in actuality, producing more energy.
Need a first step, ball rolling, build momentum.
Finally achieves kinetic.
The pen scrawls unabashed fervor;
some junkie who feels the high even before the needle penetrates his skin.
And squeeze: there’s the release.
Orgastic even—teeming with life.
Here, let’s make it happen.
Fertilizing eggs of miscellaneous; goulash of the brain.
Grow and hatch into something beautiful, mysterious, titillating, compelling,
Albeit doubtlessly incongruous.
But in some acceptable fashion be squared off and wrapped up with an ink bow
or spoken disclaimer, “it’s only the first draft.”
A neatly presented gift from the patchwork of my mind;
A quilt for your viewing pleasure.

i won’t tell you how to use your legs
i will let you lie, and sip my drink
for i’m a man who can describe himself
and my morality borders so closely the line
of acceptability that i’m interesting
and someone who can walk will come and sit
next to me and sip delicately on their drink
in tandem and we’ll sit far above the floor.

i will discuss with them.
and my compatriots.
dying.