05 | April | 2013 | Golden Star Poetry

Flawed Handiwork

you, with the eyes

they are all I am imagining

they are all I am writing about.

I talked about you once to the butcher

but he is silent:

he does not pay attention to you, only to your pockets.

I talked about you once to the barber

but he is silent:

he does not pay you any attention, only to his scissors.

I talked about you once to the author

but even she does not speak,

for she is always at home at night alone, always with her bloody pencils.

I talked about you to the teacher

but he just laughed, and mentioned, casually

about how many times you have been whipped and scolded.

I talked about you to the sun,

who only tossed his rays in my direction, who whispered

how he only shines for me, and didn’t’ know why I would mention you.

I know I should not fall in love with ideas of stupidity

when reflecting on you and what (should be) perfect,

but what is, and always has been, a flawed piece of god’s handiwork.

I scramble for you, up on these high mountain walls

Craving to say three tingling words that dance frantically in my mouth,

but I spit them back out on myself, knowing that you would not hear them anyway.

Stream of Consciousness #7

likely she stood out

her silhouette was my shadow

I lied in a company of two instead of five

I lived for one light fine and the voracious beauty which lied in my kin

i liked the manner in which she spoke

she was the woman of the Canadian wilderness

and second only to me,

I was the first in command

I held the rocks which by a sea she drove

and did not care what happened to me

long as I was free and held onto a part of myself that was undoubtedly me

and you kept it

you never let it go

you kept it in the palm of my hand

oh god who helps me

do you see me very foolish to want the same things for you as I do for her?

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

likely, she said, it was likely very likely. I will get back to you mister Morison I love you mister Morrison give me that back mister Morrison mister Morrison call me Alexander misses, alright call me Alexander .she says call me Aleka Alexander call me Aleka. I will call you says Alexander, I will call you by that name and that name only.

why does she muse about herself in another person’s shoes? she has nothing else to do, says her friend it makes her cry, undoubtedly, it does. I love you mister Morrison do you want some coffee?

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

she listens to four classical stations

and her favorite tune

this one is his theme song

it is derived from the word “Pig” in Latin

and it means the root of all evil lies within the soul of meat.

eat it now

or starve she says

why does his hair be perfectly combed

but he looks away and starts laughing

she laughs

she pulls the comb she pulls the trigger