Cards on Tables

The post said not to spindle or fold but
I thought it would be nice to hold open
hands and present you with a heart as
it was withdrawn from the deepest part

Still beating and bleeding and seething
with desire to go further than that initial
awkward meeting of the minds as they
yearned to find something inside that
could replace the hole in the left side

When that old ticket was shredded in a
flicker of time like a painter’s soft ear
during the part of the year when fears
drive the quest to be less alone within
worlds that have already shown steady
beats on bustling streets of people who
act the part of together souls plugging
holes of drowned despair hoping that
someone will care to take heed of the
need to be seen in their magic and art

Which is why my tragic attempt to take
apart a broken shard of this old vessel to
place in your box with a note of care and
imagine that you’d want to find it there on
the table with that book of fables always
making it seem so easy to find purchase
on velvet surfaces turned face up by hand

New York Tines

With pitchfork precision
you make your incision

Like those split-second
decisions to lower your
shoulder when passing
older people on crowded
sidewalks so you can feel
bolder than the cowering
soul you hide within but

That’s no sin in the city
that never weeps at least
openly even when hearts
rend hopefully toward a
friend who fits the seams
and silences the screams

Emanating from dark alleys
astride ghost kitchen galleys
filled like pastries with molten
sauces running brown from
leaden faucets that no one
notices in their woeful haste
to get across the divide of
living besides millions yet
being alone which is why I
picked up the phone to say

I miss those days when we
used to play in the streets
Hearts beating alongside
glass houses of pent up
love on days that never end

Zoned only for friends but
we can still at least dream
that wounds heal in time

Midnight Massacre

It’s hard to tell if another truly sees
the patina of stains around the eyes
lingering from those faded traumas
born of daily dramas too mundane to
recount like lost votes in a rout and yet

It seems so obvious even to those who
are oblivious to sensory experiences
and oh to be them for even a moment

To smooth a rough idled start by this
old soul cobbled together from parts
of discarded hearts and bespoken
rhymes that bend like feathers until
they snap in those dark quiet spaces

When it all rushes back how massive
the attack really was from such a
limited perspective filled with some
caustic invective as you inject desire
into tired veins wondering if that pain
will subside enough to try again with
another who claims to see the real you

—

NOTE: Written from the perspective of faces in the crowd from an indelible image of the city — the bustling alienation of perpetual (missed) connections — and submitted to another venue but to no avail, although it was a close call (maybe something more wicked, perhaps?). Anyway, it’s nice to get feedback at all from anyone human these days, and it does add to the process of feeling like these things go somewhere. But hey, even if they didn’t, better to be here than in a box.