Dark Poetry Prose Poetry July 3, 2003 Dark Poetic Prose

7-3-03 thursday 8:35pm brick NJ

i'm writing because that's what i am. writing because my purpose is absent.

reading as i can. infering the meanings i can protect. reading as i am asked, but always questioning the content.

i'm listening when. pedalling silence to hungry lips. listening as i often do. face to wind and trying to remember not to spit.

because when i'm talking the words are betraying. because when i speak the bridge sinks in the middle. i can't get across.

i'm writing as much as you can call it that. more like hiding or being trapped in a cocoon of your own invention. caterpillars change and burst out butterflies. but what am i? what will i become?

break life into pieces and you'll find that they won't go back together again. break the night into verses and it may to sing to you, but it won't oblidge your requests. it may be that nothing changes. or worse yet, that everything has. it may be that i've forgotten. or worse still that i can't.

it used to be pictures. then it was song. it used to people. then it was me. it used to be simple things like long bike rides. then it became something different. more alive and still less. it used to be about keeping them at a distance. now it's about bridging that gap. it used to be that i was alone. but now it's about being lonely.

all the stories that i've told have left me. and the ones that i couldn't stay. the ones that remain not so pretty. all the pages that i have made love to have left me. and the ones that i couldn't touch are all that are left. cold, wrinkled, empty diaries. angry, bitter unabridged ironies. we'll die together when and be buried together, but until then we'll share this empty space staring at and hating this void that we have made.

7-03-03 9:11pm brick NJ thursday

persistance of memory. melting clocks. dali handed echos resonating in empty heads.

persistance of memory. or persistance of life. time. melting hours. brush stroked lives of color drying too harshly.

worn out denim lives. holes in the knees of feeling. internet connects and threatens all in the same keystroke. techonology diffuses and ignites us. like a bomb still ticking. a sniper still aiming. targets untrue. and songs without a melody.

happenstance gives chances. should we take them. or just wait for the next. railroad lives follow the tracks. should we turn the switch or just wait and see where the journey take us.

persistance of memory. melting clocks. dali-esque moments fill the canvas of life.

brush stroke lives in colors much too bright. palette knife hearts harden with jagged edges. so dimensional. so fragile. like people trying to know. like the song you remember, but cannot name. it will find you one day. it will find you and it will give chase. but you won't run. you'll just let it take you. no explanation. just instinct on the verge of wisdom.