When I write a love letter, I dont call it that I call it pieces of skin, picked like fruit I call it grins and overconfident failure Whiskey and loss When I choose a pen, I dont consider it arming myself I take it for what it is-- nice ink given body; dull voice given form I hold it but I know its not really mine; some of it belongs to wilted pages, the plastic belongs to the future (probably in the ocean somewhere) But I only worry about that some times-- and I always have nicknames for them because I never call them love letters I call them, mornings alone, dry blood like rot I take the pain in our fingers and name it after the sound of blade cutting paper I screen my calls just to see them written, pseudonyms etched in digital slices-- I dont often call back I call after them, Gone before its over Distant as of late Punctuated Longing I draw a far off look on a napkin (really just coffee stains) and I pick up the bill-- I draw away from calendar dates like they were predators, but I wont refer to them as such; theyre just days and I can talk through most of them even though there are times I cant reach anyone Even though there are times when Im a cracked screen on a cell phone that reads: You dont know what to call me Even when indentions and linebreaks only make shapes on a page, or a bed-- broken stanzas like drifting lovers, exaggerating the foreverspace between them (actors mixing up their callbacks), role playing emptiness at length-- Auditioning for a poorly scripted gig of a mistake but thats only a part-time concern The same situations will misuse your names and tie knots in the lines that get ahold of you-- Shackles for an enveloped prisoner And it doesnt matter what you call it
Posted on: Sun, 27 Jul 2014 19:23:12 +0000
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