Muted

I know you're
just trying
to solicit an emotion,
but don't you know
that your prying tongue
and hinging jaws
elicit
little more than
frustration?

When you speak
your lips
send scavengers
to my brain.
They only pick at the decay
which is nothing close
to what
I wish to say.

Maybe This is All We Have

Voices caught in repeat,
we're like the sun
stuck with rising.

One with the air
we settle where
there is place,
regardless of location.

Continually,
the wind
brings our thoughts
once round the world,
then twice.

Calliope, Erato, and Polyhymnia (or so says wikipedia)

every time
it is
that i write
my thoughts
wander
to your body.
they stray
from my
wooden
and wicker
writing chair
to sit and swing
on the seat
of the curl
of your brown and gold
hair.

I don't have the mind
to send those spies,
but they report
back to me
anyway.
I know of your comings,
they say where you go,
and I know-
I just know-
truth hides
behind
your eyelashes.
that's why I watch,
when I know
I'm not wanted.
it's because-
just because-
you hold
the secrets
that could keep the world
from falling
off-
No.
-I mean
deserting
the course onto which
it's already
fallen.

how do you
keep
your skin
so smooth
'midst
the creases
that fold this world
into misery?
and your eyes,
they stand
so
high
already.
what allows them
to keep their poise
when the rest of us
are well acquainted with
little more
than the ground?

your left shoe lace
is undone,
did you know?

Sleepless

These dark circles scream:
Raccoon Eyes!
Assault and Battery!
or maybe even Heroin Addict!
But I know they’re undreamt dreams.

I wait for their preview
to roll across my closed eyelids.
When R.E.M. hits
I’ll be ready for the feature presentation.

Until then, my body turns in the dark.
It collects tired skin and aches of bone.

Losing consciousness twelve hours after its expected arrival
is not an option.
Pushing through lead-lined doors of exhaustion,
I convince myself, tonight I’ll sleep,
but what I want, and what my body does
rest on opposite polls of this four corner bed.

Self-Preservation

There is a path
worn in my carpet
that identifies
with the heavy penetration
of your voice in my head.
I never sit still.
Something needs to distract me
while I listen.
Usually you’re wanting a reply.

On my wrist
a brownish purple line darkens
each time I pause
and order my thoughts into scripts.
I swear, my meaning
is always stuck in my hand.
It never travels
to my brain through these veins.
Responses burn through my skin
and catch
on the silver sliver
of my bracelet.
I bear the branding
-Left Unsaid.

I am this cast
of hoarded thoughts,
but I mean for my bronze statued lips
to break
and spill something
-worthy.
I don’t expect someone’s hands to sift through
and declare gold.
Just notice
I tread the shore of contemplation
and at times
leave myself behind in the sand.

I know my hand continues to
finger my belt loop,
pull my hair,
and trace the table’s edge.
I know this,
and yet you stare.
You’re expecting something.
I’ve already spoken.
Why must I fulfill your expectations?