I Do Not Love You, 9/8/10

I do not love you
This much I know
How could I love one such as you
Do I love a star
Shining across the vast distance of time and space
Perhaps gone these thousand years
burst into a flash of supernova
and collapsed in upon itself into an infinite speck of blackness
but still there, in the night sky
When seen on a particular day and time
in this portion of the sky
A beacon used to guide the Traveller home
How could I love such a star
How could I love you
I do not love you
relegated I know
to the coach cabin of your heart
to a center aisle seat
upgraded at times to business class
sneaking past that little curtain
to taste the finer things
before falling back to my proper place
I do not love you

What Remains, 9/7/10

What remains, at the end of the day
The lilt in her voice, about to laugh
As she sings along with Billie Holliday
Carried on a line, across the distance
Tied, like a ribbon, around my heart

9/6/10

Never flinch
and don't get into the ring
if you can't take the hit
but I am love's stumblebum
punch drunk, shuffling gait
victim of another rope-a-dope
Forever playing out of my weight class
featherweight at best
I swing for the heavy bag
As she floats like a butterfly
stings just like a bee
and dances around me with taunting grace
as I wait for the final blow
But you don't get into the ring
unless you can take the hit
and never flinch

my intentions, 9/5/10

Her family worries about my intentions
With grumbled growls and articulate threats
and exasperated shrugs and
"O not another one"
Avuncular disapproval and sisterly menace
They worry about my intentions
which is a laugh
To have intentions is to have a plan
and I'm winging this at best
What I want, what I need
is to keep this thing,
whatever it is,
as long as I can
To give her all the parts of me she wants,
second best though they may be,
as long as she wants,
and to hold the rest in reserve
For maybes and somedays
that thing with feathers
They worry about my intentions
Casual assurances that I can win them over
met with somber shakes of the head
Not on this flat earth,
under this umbrella moon
They worry about my intentions
which are to hold onto this thing,
whatever it is,
for as long as I can,
then to keep what's left
in the soft places
the warm places
where I keep the precious things
the lost things
the irreplaceable things
But her family worries about my intentions
Hell, so do I

Same Sky, Different Hills, 9/4/10

There is a beauty here
not yet ruined by the slipshod and half assed
the abundance of the lowest bidder
A beauty not writ in pastels and soft tint
harsh, in brown and slate, olive and beige
not the beauty of the sparrow's fall
but the beauty of the hawk in flight
Still, one line of hills looks much like another
The only difference is scale
and the horizon is much the same
the sky is the same as the one above her head
Though here it is blue, bold and rough
there it is grey, soft and light
but the same sky nevertheless
Same sky, different hills

9/3/10

I want to stamp my foot
Throw a tantrum in petulant rage
Shake my fist at the gods
Pitch a fit
Hold my breath til I turn blue
But I turned blue long ago
Not Muddy Water blue
Or Howling Wolf blue
but Billie Holliday blue
Bessie Smith, Nina Simone blue
Blue like the color of my eyes
soft and light and maybe deep
perhaps flecked just a little
with yellow like gold
I don't want to stamp my foot any more
I want to listen to someone sing the blues
soft and light and deep
flecked with yellow, like gold

She has her Ghosts, 9/2/10

She has her ghosts
They linger in the shadows
around her bed at night
They haunt not out of malice
but love
She cannot explain it
not in any of her many languages
But they are there
lingering in the shadows
And I believe her
For I have my ghosts as well
Haunting not in malice
but perhaps in love
and the lingering scent
of perfume

In the Still Cool Morning, 9/1/10

I walk around the little park behind my father's house
in pajama bottoms and a black t-shirt
now faded to charcoal grey
in the still cool morning
as I listen to her speak over my cell phone
and she makes me laugh
Is there any joy greater
than a girl who makes you laugh
She has a musical ear
and when she tells a story
takes on the voices of all the people in it
And though I know none of them
they are all as real as if they are standing beside me
Listening to her and nodding and laughing as well
as I walk around the park behind my father's house
looking out across the dry wash
and talk to her on my cell phone
in my pajama bottoms and a black t-shirt
faded now to charcoal grey
in the still cool morning

8/31/10

even while she's breaking my heart
This tough little girl from Siberia
Who carries the weight of the world
but doesn't mind at all
And when she laughs
her voice takes on
a slight Scottish lilt
and breaks my heart again

Dog Days, 8/30/10

Dog Days of Summer
Oven blast heat
fever weather
fevered dreams
Dreams of a girl
How could I expect to hold her
with second hand wisdom
and thrift store charm
Love in the Dog Days of Summer
Never last into the Fall
It would've been nice though
if just once
I Could've made her swoon

8/29/10 (for K)

Fitting together mismatched puzzle pieces
Creating a picture of something like love
If not that, something else, but close
a puzzle of the Grand Canyon
so what if her piece is of the Eiffel Tower
I've always said what the Grand Canyon
really needs is an iron tower
And the pieces almost fit together
round and straight in the right places
Just not quite cut of the same groove
But I still say
what the Grand Canyon really needs
is a giant iron tower

These Days, 8/28/10

Is this how it's done these days
with texts and chats and cell phones
Late night conversations in the stolen hours
But all my hours are hers, stolen or not
and her hours are only borrowed
from another
with fines and interests
penalties and fees
This is how it's done
the same old foolishness
just new forms of communication
Still, I'm awake at the sunrise more often than not
as the new day is born here
hours old where she is
and so far, the sunrises have been the only good thing here
stolen, borrowed, or not
they are her gift to me