Dark Poetry Prose Poetry April 15, 2005 Dark Poetic Prose

04-15-05 friday 9:13pm

the offer pools in me. like water toward the center of a shallow basin. seeking its level. whatever that level may be.

life seems to be a rubber band. when you're young it's dense and taut and easily snaps back. and as i get older, it begins to rot. now clinging to that which it once held together. and if pulled upon breaks in half.

i watch the window for signs of change. but they're all on the other side of the road.

motion doesn't move us. we weave that tapestry. the needle goes through your eye and comes out your heart. on and on until life's been sewn up.

maybe i should care and simply i refuse. kettle boiling on the stove unwilling to whistle. eventually it will explode.

maybe i don't care, but i want to. deaf man still insisting he can hear the music.

the night gathers in me. colors drawn to eachother. and the outlines they bleed through.

04-15-05 10:05 pm friday

a forest of hows. licking the wind with their leaves. restraining changes a branch at a time. as the moon looks down from its careful perch in your darkness. half-hearted sun that illunimates only the shadows.

my broken back. or what feels like. bends me over. parenthetical fits of strength in the atrophy of desire.

there's a whole world i was once subject to. that has banished me. smooth highways of sex without speed limit signs. but so many radar traps. so many sirens blaring in my rearview. but i can't pull over. admit my short-sightedness. i had to get there fast. and leave even quicker yet.

there's a door where i exitted, that just refuses to let me back in. it's got a handle on the inside to let you out. but once you leave, it doesn't want you back.

like the throes of youth that spit out the adults in us. crying and complaining until ourselves, we were tired of.

there's death, dancing like a flag against prevailing winds. high up on its pole it waves. i look up and want so much to worship it.

now that there's nothing else to love. certainly not to believe in .

i let them have me. and that's exactly what they did.

winds are meant to move the rain. and rain is to quench. the wind moved me. but the rain, it just left me wet.

i don't know what flowers to pick. nor which one's petals to pluck. i stand over them. watching them grow from the dirt. and all i can think about is how ephemeral their chance to bloom is. a brief splash or color. leaving me with only the memory of their lingering scent. and then they're gone and they won't return again.