Friday, February 19, 2016

Weighted



There is a method used
To keep curtains
Prim and straight
To keep them from billowing in the wind
The owner takes weights
Metal plates or stones
And sews them into the hem
So that the bottom is pulled down
Succumbing to the irrefutable claim
Made by gravity

I have of late
Found around me this feeling
Like I am wearing a cloak
That wraps around my form
Falling from my shoulders
In soft waterfalls of fabric
But it's not a comforting thing

It yearns for the ground
With the weight of the stones
That are threaded into its seams
I am full of gnawing thoughts
They condense like drops of water
Like frost in winter
Forming tiny knots
That grow and build and compound themselves
Until they drag at me
Sinking me to the earth

Yet as much as I feel the urge
To let my body collapse beneath them
They also make it impossible
To sit still
They dig into my sides
So that I shift in my seat
Stir in my sleep

And now the whole world it seems
Has become so heavy
As if the very air
Has become a heavy curtain
A weighted sheet
That brings me down

Untitled

The minute hand and I
We have a lot in common
Both sitting still and motionless
In a box we cannot escape
Bound by wires
Under the scrutiny of others
I feel I am sinking
Sliding
Into endless loops
Binding myself
With ever-tightening coils
Of vacant mediocrity

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Worry Stone

You aren't an idiot

You make it so easy
to slip the locks from my tongue
Open the latched doors
And touch sunlight
to the dusty rooms behind my courtyards

But if I pour out my thoughts 
Like rice or water or shiny river stones 
You'll catch too much 
You'll put it together 
Like patchwork and jigsaws
Weave your threads with slender fingers
A skein of curious contemplation

There are scars on mine
My fingers, my hands
My thoughts

Would you notice?

Would you care?

I fear you'll hear the words
I'm not speaking
The words that wear me
That I wear like weights
You're too clever by half to not see it

Not by now

Just when did you learn me so well?

But you're comfortable like an old blanket 
And I want to let it all come unraveled 
I'm tired of walls and hidden things
I want your words 
Your words as a knife 
for your fingers to wield

And sometimes I think
it might be ok
For you to carve out a place for yourself
In the hollows
And sew yourself in

But no
I ache more for comfort
Than release

So instead I sew myself shut
And I worry the words
That I want you to find
And pray that you don't

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

Recoil



Sleep is an uneasy thing
He dreams in muted colors
When he sleeps at all
A world unwinding in garbled images
Dripping from his stems
Flooding his roots
Feelings adrift between the taste
Of liquor
Of kisses
Of blood
Like copper coils and wishing pennies
His veins digging into the earth
Draining into the soil
He winds himself
As he twists in the sheets
Wrapping himself in his cords
Tearing himself apart