Normal Conversation

You said
you could never
envision that type of
love
in general,
yet you
thrust
that poem
in my face
and called it
normal conversation.

you said you could
never see that sort of
life,
(you said)
you never saw that sort of thing
(indelicate as it was)
yet you mentioned
that movie
and smeared it on my brain
in bright colors,
you said
it was
the epitome of
love stories,
and oh how grand (!),

you tossed it in-between
your overgrown
oft repeated
words:

but that was not my place
by the window
or in the morning
when my toes should have been
freezing,

that was not my place
in the morning corridor
where I awaited your
exaused
hello,

that was not my place
in the morning corridor
waiting for the smell,
for the jangle of keys
that told me
you had arrived.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Advertisement

Newsreel About The Girl Next Door

I was opiated by the lolloping
way
your smile
framed
half of your face
in monsoon time
in a summer rain.
In the corner
of the day,

she doesnt know
how to respond.
(she doesnt know
how to respond)

hello, this is the reporter and we’d like to find out how you fell in love just like that?

I was young, we were always on the same page, I was bored, what would you expect? I mean people can only know so much about themselves, they need an extension of themselves to really find out who they are.

I was nauseated by the way
I stood at the door
ready to seal my fate
day after day
like a gossamer wing
stuck to the ceiling fan
etching its own name
into the crevasses
of the plastic and dust,

She doesn’t know
how to detach
(She doesn’t know
how to detach)

so, what, you had dreams about each other? As in, there was a psychic connection?

yes, we would wake up and have the same dreams almost every night. I was infatuated with the idea that we were somehow inside each other’s minds.

She doesn’t know how to detach
She doesn’t know how to respond
but none of this is new
and anyhow
she still hasn’t opened up
his letters
for at least ten years now.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

The Wrong Kind of Habitual

Theres nothing much telling
about patterns of
delirious obsession
but you know it hits
when the nearest blank slate
strikes a chord with the observer
like chalk
sticking to the hand
clinging on for dear life
and when gasping for air
at the slightest muffle,
or a burst in the tile,
shattering slate
erasing and regressing
making an impression of the empty room
and with hands of ghosts, whispering
“you’ll never get there, just watch”
he was a mirror
on a mirror
standing against an impossible fortress
it was an unimpressive day
for the unimpressive life
and his little hands shook
and why was he so
little
if I wasn’t
that much smaller
if the dusty air
craves company
on the everywhere (because)
most people have reserves about life,
but I was too self-centered to care
and the clouds of talc
and Burning wood
meld on mealymouthed utterances (Lord!)
swept me under the rug.
I was so tightly bound (my feet)
never quite touching the ground
feeling my way through the fear
holding a box
of chalk.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry