Taping reruns
I struggle with this new format
Finding relevance in heartbeats
Full of rewinds and repeats
Negative views on film negatives
My path is technicolor wasteland
After black and white paradise
Mismatched episodic content
And story lines going nowhere
In her hands she holds truth
Careless in her recompose
And would gladly trade it
For a breakfast of cigarettes
Death comes quickly for some
While others go into syndication
I’d join her, if moral ambiguity
Was a synonym spinoff of quality
This next one is more stream of consciousness, I had a lot of trouble with it until last night where I was strung out on cold medicine and delirious. I neatened it up and I think it has a strange cohesion.
damaged from the start.
We met in a bargain bin:
her all runny make up
and cheap lipstick;
me all stoic,
damaged from the start.
She gave me names
of which she had several.
I chose “loneliness”
I liked it best.
She claimed past fortune
and fame,
I listened
without intent.
She started
and stopped.
I stopped
and shrugged.
She asked my name.
I couldn’t think of it
even though I hadn’t forgotten,
a single syllable.
I sighed silent curses,
letting my head sink
into my worn out hands,
not quite feeling defeated.
My fingers traced the ridge
of the scar I got long ago;
the ancient ravine,
an indentation of my scalp.
Oh, pauses are a lot longer
on those miserable nights,
when you aren’t waiting
for someone or for anything.
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