that specific speck of dust in the road
from the exact spot where
we were done.

i saved it.
in a jar.
i look at it regularly.
whenever i’m feeling down.

knowing that speck was there
when life stopped sucking.

i took a video
of the mulberry branches’
shadows swaying.

Kind of quiet,
no?
’til she finds the corner of
the bench seat
but even then, not loud.
Not so much.

But she says what she needs to,
and isn’t that enough?
and what else is there, really?

The belts are not so tight
so she can move a bit.
She appreciates that, I think.
And when we took a short trip
in to the city, it was just enough
to stretch our legs.

The ducks were out that morning;
I heard about them, I heard.
I don’t remember.

There were other things on my mind.

i’ll don strange shoes and put my hair (what sad little bit is left of it)
up into something my wife would never allow me to be seen with in public

trudge mountains and valleys
and cross a stream or two.

take in the sky. grunt. fart. make penis jokes.
i’m fairly certain our creator knew it was hilarious looking when he made it.
and generally enjoy yourself
this is man time.

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