How many pages will I make of you, LL?

Visitor

Brave me, old delight.
Brave me,
and remind me why we leave our beds.
You liquor love,
You fall on me dryly, arresting tears, until I've tipped my glasses...
You unsubscribe from your silence thenceforward,
And all but the sand at your seams pours over me.
Excited, only you are choking, and I am surplussed with breathing space.
Leave me to find a shore again,
So you may brave me another night,
and ink my feathers.

Destiny

To you, I devote Destiny. I did so when you died, but today, on paper. From you, I draw strength.
It is never too late to say goodbye, though you should know you never left.
My uncle, I miss you dearly. We all do.

What Heart Knows

What Heart asks for. Thread for the needle. Words for the water. Meat for the bone. The heart asks for substantial blood. The heart asks quietly, because no heart wants to hear itself. The heart is a folding explosion. The heart is denied its attachments, because the heart might get pulled from it's station. The heart is a stranger to the ribs who cage it. The heart has a language that rhymes every word and every breath. The heart is the dread under the breast. The heart is tenderly smiling and violently thrusting. The heart is too big for the soul. The heart never leaves. The heart wants to stop. The heart beats itself to death.

Sweet Piece of Mind

I have a tyrant's hunger
for well-defined shapes.
easily described, analyzed;
more of the hard-to-hold,
"feel with your eyes" types.
I search in my living space
for currency to coin, little
tempered adages to give;
my charity to you, a gift
of words filled with vacant
glass, a smack of void from
my deleterious hands.
wait

Transatlanticism

field

Darling, you challenge me to forget
Intrusive thoughts of slight are
All I've been trying to wring.
They're solid in this space, square,
So elegantly sharp on every side,
and they fit perfectly together,
Even if they are an infidelity
on this plane of states.
I recur through my questions on how
I could walk among these cracked old steps
After all these years, my direction is the same.
But I must remark on my masochism...
These reminiscences bring me to depth.
My illusions make me happy,
And happy is nothing without complaint.

more on artifacts

it's about something small
to hide away, keep from safe.
it will make a bastard sigh.
fill't with gold, i sit beside Them
my social slavers and
structure-less soliloquy
on how the artifacts could never last.
there's a taste of iron in my vine basin,
though under this mound of pitch and rust
i seem to have unearthed my polished sin

Quietus

For all the different days of the year, I had weeks for each stored in my memory. I relived every moment that ever meant a thing to me. I am reliving a moment right now. Tomorrow will feel like today. Tomorrow will feel like last week. All of my cigarettes are gone.

I could hear the synthetic chirping of some kind of machine next to me. First a chirp, then a screech. My eyes shot open. I couldn’t work out where the light was coming from, but it was too bright. I got angry. Who put me here? I began to panic. I needed a cigarette. All of my cigarettes were gone. I turned over in my bed. My cell was high in some compound, the walls reeked of torpidity. Someone died here. Many have died here. This place was mathematical.

I jolted my body off of the bed. I wasn’t restrained, but I was drugged. I felt something dislodge from my nose followed by the familiar scent of a bloody nose. I had an interesting childhood. I was tough. I will get the fuck out of here, I told myself.

A familiar voice interrupted my mental thrashing. I rose from the ground in the arms of an angel of some sort. Brightly colored blue attire, a wedding ring, a very familiar perfume. I could not make out her face. I couldn’t speak to her. My words were seeds for some other season.

As I began to calm, her voice began to stand out amongst the bustle of beeps and alarms and shrieking and sighs.

Mister Vanda, You’ve just woken from a coma. You need to relax and try to focus on what I’m saying.

The illusion was much more amusing. It took many minutes for me to become fully aware of my insignificance. I was paralyzed, unable to speak, and I couldn’t breathe. Perhaps the latter few of those problems were related. In the mess of these thoughts, I feel back into sleep.

I woke to cigarette smoke, the sun no longer an offender of my eyes, not a soul but the woman beside me. She was clearly different from the nurse, her silhouette was lithe and her hair was neat. It was too dark to speak confidently about what she looked like, but the second-hand smoke was beautiful. I could smell it through the tubes of plastic. I began to tilt my head and speak, but as soon as I stuttered out a greeting, another bath of blinding hospital fluorescence ripped through my will. I muscled through. I adjusted. It was my wife, definitely. The last memories I could speak for in my waking life were with her. Wanting to leave her. I can’t remember if I told her. It was an interesting conundrum… but I could not, with any measure of effort, remember much before or after those few days. They seemed only moments away, easily accessible, but lonely in my mind like a few books resting against each other on an otherwise empty bookshelf.

//To re-frame, re-cut, and re-post later. This is merely an outline.