Good Practice

My darling,
I don’t even know what demons
your drowning in your drinking,
but it’s left me alone and thinking
with such tragic sinking feelings,
that I’m concealing from the world
in my own bottles swirled with ink.

My darling,
The weather for tomorrow is a
steady cast of showers that they
say will birth the flowers in my
heart, but I forecast an overcast of
grey and cloudy pencil shavings
shading the sky from light to dark.

My darling,
The fear I find in freedom it follows
feverishly in my dreams, and
delicately woven it seams as if a
monster were screaming talk to me
talk to me, and in a way it seems
that if we spoke for just a moment
our severed searching souls might
sleep soundly and serene.


Note Taking

That, has nothing and everything to do with your class.
I’m sorry I’m not paying attention,
but there are matters at hand that I must attend to amend the bends
and folds bursting out of my mind,
making matters miserable for me sitting here
peacefully, quietly.
Blood pumping, veins throbbing,
creativity robbing me of the educational material
you desire burns forest fires over my notebooks.
Khaki clad lectures and suede serenades of study
just don’t fit in these pages
while I itch with irrational grammatical fears and anxieties.
Commas and semicolons haunt my daydreams and
white space suffocates until I awake and shake with
An overactive imagination that my pen fails to control, falls to the floor,
and catches your attention that I’m not looking at the board.
You ask me what is written and
I am shyly smitten that you have some interest in my art.
Margins somewhat peek at the subject that you speak but the ants beneath my feet tell me to retreat to the corners on my mind and give a clean sweep onto the page.
Do not be enraged that I am not engaged, my minds just setting the stage for my pen to be more than lifeless and grey.
So I suppose all I can say, is yes, I am taking notes.
But no, they have nothing —yet everything— to do with this class.

“And I wish you would come home.”

Copy. Paste. Scratch that. Erase.
Deep breath, begin.

The lace ribbon waist was a waste, look up at her face
and trace the white space
between freckles and scars
and whisper
when I see your eyes
I see shooting stars.

Like a moth to a light, must fight off another night of the temptation.
Your anticipation of allegations and accusations
from association is a hallucination.
Careful contemplation for explanation cannot beat extra examination.
The merciless manipulation that raised rebellious retaliation is your strength.
Do not forget that.

Lace waist wasted in satin neck ties and dark dress pants,
look in the mirror to see her and see

See yourself.
Your future, your heart, your home.
And see your bruised and battered benevolence that broken, became brilliant.