I Didn’t Expect

I didn’t expect it to be so lonely.
Cooled by the dry air into cracks,
The fractures of a life
Lived too much
Too eagerly
The cracks and wrinkles of age at 25,
Wine in the morning,
Tears at night.

God I didn’t expect it to be so lonely
Sipping on the liquor of my disappointment,
Flicking embers from my fingers—
That impartial anger—
Singing the edges of words
And the corners of blankets
With the heat of the country that bore this—
Whoever she is—

I didn’t expect this loneliness.
Alone in the afternoons
Silent in the sealed houses,
The rooms full of glass
So impertinently unbroken,
So mischievously whole.

I didn’t ask for this loneliness,
God knows I didn’t ask,
Followed by ghosts into the dark spaces of my past,
Whispering in the unhurried way
Of ghosts
That quickening of the blood,
That little lick at the back of your throat
That says
Hush and hurry
Don’t linger too long.

I didn’t expect it to be so lonely,
Calmed to pieces by the lull of paved highways,
Friction between tires and road
Gleaming along like the shell of an egg
Like the calm of a morning
Unshattered by church songs.

It’s the loneliness of smooth surfaces,
The solitude of preservatives,
The isolation of efficiency
That I didn’t expect.

[5/6/2016]


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Golden

In the golden hours of your dreaming,
When all the world is warm and true,
Whose hand is in your golden hand?
Who crests the edge of night with you?
I wish I were a gentler soul
So I might meet you where you stand,
Or be at least the place you walk–
I wish I were that silver land.
But I am not that paragon,
No unspoiled ivory tower I,
I cannot join you where you go
Wild boy, true love of mine.

[9/22/2015]

The Clock Breaks

Clocks are very lonesome things, as
their tireless ticking shows;
what other thing holds time itself
in regimented rows?
Its hands are stiff and even,
its face is round yet sallow,
its purpose simple yet mundane,
its love broken and fallow.
And yet it keeps on ticking,
marching out to dust the time
in metrical perfection–
its sisyphean rhyme.

A clock does not ask questions
nor ponder why it moves
time from life to seconds,
as its ceaseless slicing proves.
A clock could never face
the senselessness of time
were it alive and breathing

imperfectly.