Winter, the Lover

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(Open to Close)

It’s been cold for days
But that’s fine by me
I’d be numb anyways
I yearn for the violent wind
the punishing slaps to my face
the feeling of a thousand needles
I never get sick of the taste
I don’t want to walk
I don’t want to find a flame
Because I’ll just grow hot
And miss Winter my lover again
Her chill is so sweet
shattered glass on a carpet floor
blood stains the fabric
until you can’t feel anymore
She has me run to her
to feel her embrace
the flurries of dark wind
highways of empty space
no light in the distance
cities miles from the rearview
The windows rolled down
so she can tell me what to do

Two hands turn to one
one foot turns to two
as I pass eighty miles
just like she asked me to
I’ll only stop running
when I have a place to go
Alone in an empty apartment
or face first in the snow

I was never meant to make it
She told me that from the start
Warm from some other man
Because she got tired of a cold heart
No more anxiety, or worry
No more wondering left
She was like Winter
and I was, at best, blue
As I slept alone she told me
I should look the same on the outside too

One hand turns to none
Dim headlights turn to empty night
She howls from the window
“I’ll be yours forever – you know that it’s right.
Let me hold you on these empty roads.”

Winter was always there – the only lover I had ever chose
From the beginning to the end
Open to close.

 

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Turn Right

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Stuck on the highway between a semi and an oversized truck
Nothing left on the radio besides the terrible
and the so over played it sucks
I’m going twenty miles more than I should
Though my exit is only five away
And it kills me knowing that even though I’ll turn right
I could so easily drive right by

Wait until I find a better station, find a better song
Maybe just drive until I can admit to myself
that I know something wrong.
But you know as well as I
try though as I might
hours of miles or states away – I’ll never feel the same
All I do is turn right

I don’t know what it would take
After nights of rushing thoughts
and written admission a hundred ways
It doesn’t matter the time or place
It’s just not the same
I could run and hide and change my hair
Write a million words – no one would care
I’ll never go fast enough
to not still be me
and there’s not enough gas in the world
to change what I’m meant to be

In the Dim Red Light of a New Mexico Dive Bar

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See through the smoke and spot those hazy Autumn eyes
Every fallen leaf is another year gone by
Trying to turn back time and forget about the lies
But the world refuses to forget
The seasons change
But the world, it won’t forget.

Neither do I.

See you through the mirror
Looking just like the photographs you showed me years ago
Just another reprint of the imitation
Like everyone else in the room you know
You bring the cigarette to your lips – pale pink from rubbed off lipstick
Knees vaguely wobbly
Face wondering if you’ll be sick

“I thought I’d never see you here.” You mutter, to me or not at all
Perhaps it’s just the thick nicotine perfumed air
You stumble once, then twice – and I reach to grab you before you fall
“Do you know how many times I tried to call?”

I look down at you and realize I don’t recognize the hair, or the piercings, or the clothes you wear that you used to hate
I don’t recognize the beat poet friends falling out the front door with men smoking cloves and wearing turtlenecks even though they promised to wait
But still the same are those Autumn eyes I always knew, still perched in the same still silent sadness
crying tears that roll down your cheeks
to the floor beneath us
It never changed – what you were running from never left
For the world refuses to forget.

I held you for five minutes
No longer
before I returned you to your chair and I walked out the backdoor
to rid myself of the angsty overly introspective menthol air
I didn’t know if you were drunk
or if you’d even remember me in the morning
If you’d recall me crying softly
and telling you I was sorry.
But you are who you are now
And I’m all set to go
You may forget me in the morning
Yet I remember your eyes – cursed to always know

The Sun at 8 PM

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Reaching, outpouring
Wanting to forget about never knowing
Falling or sleeping
Or dreaming of being awake
I can’t find someone to give back
All this regret I continue to take
Wake me up
Before I go under
I want to remember the way
You looked up at me in wonder
There’s silence in the trees
And a lack of air at night
And no matter what medication i take
Nothing I stick inside me feels right
All the depressive
Without a manic to be found
I reach for your hand
But i’m not safe
when you’re around
And across my eyes
There’s a forest burning
They all cry for help
Because the earth keeps on turning
I don’t think they get the monopoly
Humans have on hate
Because even with loss
They just want to get away
So the sun melts
And you walk out the door
And at long last I remember
That you weren’t there anymore
There’s been years since your touch
And the trees are now ash
And when I get a little better
I’m just close to another crash
But in the cinders and dust
From that old wood
Life will rise again as it should
Yet only in a dream
Will you come to me
And my life is always fleeting
Just as it should be

Circular Anxiety

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Sitting idly
No silence in the air
So I’m left in my head
Thoughts in rotation
Every word I’ve said
Autonomously moving
Like the changing of the clock
Tick tock
Tick tock
Why did I?
Why did I not?
If there’s reason for the Viewmaster in my head
Constantly changing between the scenes
Of fixated regret
I can’t make it out or try to get it to change to a different reel
There’s no choice or chance or change to American monuments or creatures of the rainforest
Just monumental fuck ups
And the list of people I’ve made dislike me
I wish I could stop the flash
The fleeting thoughts
But they come and go and tick away
Tick tock
Click of the reel
Constantly in motion and when it stops it begins again
Circular anxiety

Glaring Omission

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(red curtain)

don’t forget
we all fall
and there’s nothing left
at the final call
to leave behind
or store away
because we can apologize
some other day
i won’t please you
you can’t speak to me
we don’t understand
the language of being
softer words
than the touch of your tongue
and my mouth writes monologues
that your lips haven’t sung
yet despite the lack
of oxygen
between you and me
i still find far too many allusions

to our own soliloquy

Under the Skin

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(no more)

Under my skin
You fell so deep
Lips like honey
Against my skin your kisses seep
Dripping like rain
On tear soaked diary pages
Leave it all to me
Running off as the storm rages
Left to find solace in empty memories
Recalling what you’ve remember a thousand times before
It’s time you realized that what you picture
Isn’t there anymore
You make your way under my skin
And I yearn for those sugar soaked eyes
And warm embraces made of gin
I want to remember
What I want you to think of me
But what’s in my head – the dreams that I see
There’s nothing there that is based in reality
Nothing that we can reach to, from under the skin
Anything that we can make flesh
Anything we can begin

Seasonal Ineffective

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(sun sickness)

 

Caught up in a tangle of ninety-three individual days
Circadian cycles passing in some heatstroke haze
Catch up just to fall behind
And see the water fall beneath
In our heads – the only images lies
In some dusty, dried creek
Ripples of forgetful
You take what you can get
See what you still remember
Crowded pathways of those
Just waiting for December
And we sit and wait because
The global warming feels so nice today
The ice caps can melt
But we all take swimming lessons anyway
And why look over the rim of the bomb shelter
To see what the observers have to say
Oh well
We all have to die some day

 

Ninety-three days pass
And I still don’t know when we begun
I’m just waiting for the world the end
Because I’m getting just a little sick of the sun

Here We Go Again

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Here we go again
No pencil to paper
But flesh to screen
Letting out streams of unbroken consciousness
In no new way then what was done before
But the writing gives no way to myself
My scrawl of ink scratching across some old notepad, no –
Instead across tepid electronic keyboard
And cold glass screen
Is there any of me
In what I do not touch?
Is there any emotion
In the places I do not reach?
Here we go again
Attempting to find
To feel
But it feels so empty and cold
And gives away none of emphasis I’d want to show
And so it’s all for show
Here we go again
Attempting to find
Trying to begin.

Reception in the Middle of Nowhere

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(watchtower)

Is she always there
Standing over me
Watching as the seasons change
Over some sleepy, wondering sea
Across her face and beneath her eyes
Is always the same wistful gaze
Reflections floating like young waves
Crashing just to show their size
The air gets dry
As the music grows dreamy
Synth sounds and electric emotions
As my head gets heavy beneath me
Roads pass by
And signs grow far out of distance
The radio changes with the reception –
Before we hit the chorus
And I sit looking out the rearview mirror
The radio tower lights blinking at me
Like a watch tower searching for a signal
And I wonder
If I might’ve left it on the interstate
And that’s why the music sounds so abysmal
And the static that crackles is its own accusatory finger
Blaming me for not trying harder
To get it back