Thrown away

pale are the glories brought before and
quiet is the history of the mind. One that lies
and falsifies itself with story.

There in the trunk is the truth. Locked
safely away. The many thoughts of every
other body minus my own. My own is not
like those.

Orange peels, onion skin, egg shells. All
I have to offer is hollow leftover remains.
Pretty paintings without a canvas, no brush,
no pen, not a single frame.

Nothing worth keeping.

Filing Papers Away

last 10 years.
park at end of childhood street.
this morning's sunrise.

today I realized
they were the same.
today I realized they were gone.

gone and going even further gone.
gone away from me.
gone forever.
gone.

what have I done?
since then, what have I done?
where have I gone?

look back.
look forward.
gone.

today I realized they were gone.
today I realized you were gone.

today I realized I will be gone.

Rolling Bridge Road

timeless cross on that
last unknown road to nowhere
before split to bay bridge
and frozen wasteland
Chesapeake scenery,
where there's a boat cutting across,
slashes through beautiful
static sheet of ice
not unlike shattered glass
floating on caps of slush and white,
two hundred years ago
there were oyster breakers on
those waves, scuttling ashore,
broken hulls, gray aged hands
 on tired washed out decks,
carrying food
for the poor.

Pointing to the Past

photographs

sepia framed
2D reality

singular vision
single perspective

still images of the
viewers past/
voyeurs present

lost to futures
on hard drive/usb/
attic boxes/funeral
posters/remains
without context

taken in flash
split second
juggled through hands
ingested by the
panopto-nostalgic eyes

Nothing Ages

From many sides and pieces
we move like refracted light
in transparent spaces between
now and future past perfect tense

an arrangement of letter
into word obituary likeness

now, then! only this remains,

something that was said, immortalized,
can be forgotten,

this is easy and often happens,

there is no other way
we must force tho we rage
we must access the tumble
and smoothing aspects of time
accept loss, accept being lost

in one hundred years
there will be no memory
of us having walked the
earth, there will be no flowers
to mourn,

there will be nothing to hold on to.

fortune teller

boxes stacked upside
down from heaven facing
earth like pyramid corpse
clouds of the infinite
sinking extra-dimensionally
into blue globed linear space
time limited vision reality
speaking in splintered images
they rupture the earth:

I
the past can be pointed to from all sides

II
every photograph we have
of ourselves show faces painted on
paper film skin

III
the future is an endless tidal wave never to break

Dreams in December

You, I saw you in my dreams
clawing at me again, it was like
the reality I feared, that you had been
planning for me, and tho in the dream
we had never left, in the world I'd
forgotten you came for me, in the subway
a chance meeting, someone tried to help
me, to get between us, but you're always
so angry, so pained, are you like that
still? If so, I won't believe you;

I ran and found a car, maybe in this
hard yellow light I could escape
but somewhere in my dreams
I end up losing control of the car,
the wires are crossed or...another
thing...I forget about you, and what
you want, if it's anything at all,

I gasp in the seat of the car
curled up and freezing in the cold
metal of the cold outside, I gasp and
come to terms with this shaking reality,
it's the morning, it's December, you're
out there in the blackness of black hole
space maybe dreaming of me too, I let that sink into
the frozen blanket that's my memory

Tomorrow and Tomorrow, look up in the sky, and save the day

I'll write this for you
before we go away and pretend to be adults,
before the world takes our souls
washes them and pretends they're new
or right,
I'll leave a message in here
that we can read and remember
but maybe never again fully understand,
when our memories are as clean as our eyes,
and the world is crumbling around us
in wonderful luminescent decay,
and you...
you can read this and wake me up
from pharmaceutical dreaming-non dreams
with tears that break the silent disorder
and right the past,
drowning our fading vision of
purple-hued loving futures.

Morning Coming Fast

The faucet drips,
keeping time with
forgetful sun, and
the oysters sleep unaware,

darkness clings to my room,
on chairs and bed frames
casting silhouette, and maybe sadness;

A boys dream
somewhere happy
someplace died,
whatever remains in comic books
and side scrolling video games,

Tally them up to
something lost- four strikes,
a diagonal is five-

the future presses on like the sun,
in my room
coating everything
in shining gold,
the burn-
I close my eyes,
the oysters lie.