Last Meal

The wine’s a bit salty,
Like a bleeding thumb,
And I can’t get past
The noise you’re making
Trying to force the dead engine
Of conversation
To turn over and run For a while.

I find it hard
Even to look at you now
And the looks that cross
Your face with every failed attempt
At rejuvenation.

If we were honest people
We would both get up
And leave through separate entrances.
I think you would cry,
And I would shake my head in fury.

A beautiful poem by my good friend over at Moon Ring.

Moon ring

Sitting in your warm apartment, with

snow falling outside frosty windows, you

are wearing purple leg warmers over blue jeans, and green

slippers that

used to be your grandmother’s.

You are singing along to

French folk music I’ve never heard before, and lazily

sucking on an electronic cigarette that smells of

honey.

 

Your hair is non-chalantly

tied into a ponytail, with

an orange scarf wrapped around your head,

like a turban, and you, darling,

are like the queer queen of Quebec.

 

It is too cold today to go to the marché,

to buy baguette and fromage and escargot

for our dinner, so instead we’ll settle

for beans and rice, and the

white wine you still have

lying around from last

Christmas.

 

Later, we’ll make love,

passionately, the way the Francophone do,

and I’ll pretend to understand

when you leave the room

to write down lines for a poem

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Oh, Sleep, Fucking Sleep

I realized yesterday that I don’t remember the last time I’ve had a full week of going to bed at a certain time, getting seven-or-eight hours of sweet oblivious dreamy relaxing sleep, and then waking up at a certain time. My mind doesn’t tend to prioritize sleep above many other things, but these things are so hard to do when my sleeping patterns spin out of control and I find myself REM-less and gormless due to its lack. This is where I am right now, clumsy and slow of thought, because last night I spent a sweaty, tossy-turny four hours praying to whatever overlord is in charge of this kind of thing–Orpheus, I guess–to let me get but a little rest before I had to start today; I have so much that needs doing when my neuro-chemicals are functioning properly, and they’re just not when I’m trapped in these insomniatic webs. It’s not a mania; manias are fun times compared to this, where my neuro-chemicals frolic spastically during the absence of sleep, thumbing their noses at traditional routines and creating there own world of fun. Oh, sure, there’s risk-taking–everything from bravado to libido decides to take the wheel for a while, but if you’re lucky you enjoy yourself and come out unscathed and unembarrassed…though almost always fiscally poorer. This, though, is a paralyzing exhaustion. Exhausted during the day, I force myself to stay awake–which takes all and every effort–and exhausted during the night, I try to keep the intrusive thoughts of the perfectly good day I’ve wasted doing nothing but staying awake so that I can SLEEP now, the irony being that the guilt over lack of daytime accomplishments is now keeping me awake. I need a hardware off-switch; this software malarkey just doesn’t work for me.

Snatch Photography

Her curtain was made up of photographer’s film,

And the sun shot through in the mornings

Casting disparate images into the small world of her room:

A study in soft browns and greens,

     some shocking reds.

Very little was blue in the mornings.