pinot noir and paramours pt. 2 (don't speak, mnemosyne)

her story, like life, is wrought with disclaimers,and her breath a train she just can't catch.

she rambles on, desperate, like a candle 
that doesn't know how to stop itself from burning

but the truth is, she just can't bear to live 
another holiday without a destination.

"her sweater and her eyes were blue and her
hair like buttercups spraying out the mouths of doves..."

she incompletes herself
with sad songs and recycled insults

swaying to the acoustic snowflakes

and drifting on the weary winds

of might-have-been.

she'd do anything to sing her that one song,
but she'd forget the words and have to hum
that unknown verse, in tune, but off-key

like her socks that never match.
and when she's done, she'd watch the lines

around those pale cerulean eyes
form rivers when she cries, making her feel

at once 40lbs too heavy and light as a feather,

but still 20 years too young.

oh, the stories she holds...

she's got her reasons for feeling so old
her body craves those warmer days,
but it's not only the seasons that change 
when she wants them to stay.
her heart aches while her bones break
into song, and she knows: her breath
will turn silver when your hair does.
she'd spend forty-four lifetimes with her head
thrown back, trying to drink the sea
so you won't have to anymore. but for now,
it's two hours and ten drinks past midnight
and her knees are bent like the pages of her favorite memoir,
the one whose title and ending she can't recall-
can't even remember reading the damned thing-
but while saudade and imagination
weave through her soul and
flesh out her memories,
she'll be holding (                   )
your place.

pinot noir & paramours pt.1

"Aphasia is a condition characterized by either partial or total loss of the ability to communicate verbally or using written words. A person with aphasia may have difficulty speaking, reading, writing, or understanding what others have said..."

if this condition were not further described as having been brought about specifically by a stroke or traumatic brain injury, i would have no problem self-diagnosing. the past two weeks have been such a roller coaster of emotions for me, that i have given up trying to intentionally process what's going on, because it just leads to self-deprecating thoughts (e.g. the common denominator in my failed relationships -platonic or otherwise- is me) or credit cards being maxed out at my local liquor store (hasn't happened yet, but the week is still young). i have no words of my own today, so i planned to present a cento poem. a cento, from the Latin word meaning "patchwork", is a poem that is constructed entirely out of the words from poems of other poets. but i didn't have the energy to do that, either, so here instead are excerpts from very unrelated poems that nearly describe some of my thoughts. with that said, if you see me in the streets, please offer spontaneous hugs. or a plane ticket... i will accept either at this point. the cento will be up in a few days if/when i get my coherency/heart/sobriety back...
alas, alack.

there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.  

-- from "Bluebird" Bukowski

And if you come I will be silent
Nor speak harsh words to you.
I will not ask you why, now.
Or how, or what you do.
We shall sit here, softly
Beneath two different years
And the rich earth between us
Shall drink our tears.
--from "If you come softly" Audre Lorde


i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again 
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new 

-- ee cummings

My Secret
My soul its secret has, my life too has its mystery,
And she who was the cause nor knew it nor believed.
Alas! I shall have passed close by her unperceived,
Forever at her side, and yet forever lonely,
I shall unto the end have made life's journey, only
Daring to ask for naught, and having naught received.
These murmurings of love that round her steps ascend,
Piously faithful still unto her austere duty,
Will say, when she shall read these lines full of her beauty,
"Who can this woman be?" and will not comprehend.

-- from "A Secret" by Félix Arvers

six a.m. sestina for sweetness

a sestina is a highly structured poem consisting of six six-line stanzas followed by a tercet of three lines for a total of thirty-nine lines. The same set of six words ends the lines of each of the six-line stanzas, but in a different order each time. sounds difficult? it is. here's an example:

These are merely pleasantries, yes, sweetness. 
They're okay for those good enough, 
at least decent, good enough get-offs, 
but the myriad pet names, clever and otherwise, 
cutesy, dumb, or 'quaint and curious'— 
the treble in your voice, turn it down. 

I know we met on a kind of down- 
beat sorta day, when that sweetness 
drifting from a baker-mom's curious 
son's steamed wet window was about enough 
to keep a one afloat—a really off 
day. I would have probably caved otherwise. 

I would have had to get all warm and fuzzy otherwise. 
These tendencies I keep tucked way down 
in my insides' (button fly) jeans' 5th pocket boil up,  and off
I go! Just hang on a second, sweetness. 
The getting goes tough then soon enough 
the toughies go to getting gone. Curious 

about all these "I miss you's." A little curious. 
Just a taste. Pencil tip on a tongue and, otherwise 
healthy, just mentally gonzo, I guess. Enough 
"I need to see you's," too. Deeply down 
there somewhere there's a certain sweetness, 
maybe, but I just don't see it. So I'm off. 

I've thrown on some Lizz Wright, so back off 
for a track...Okay, so back to that curious 
way we/you/I/she/they could squeeze the sweetness 
from a kitty cat. I'll go, I mean, otherwise 
I'll stay. It's a whatever kind of down, 
down, down, down day. I think it's broken. 

No, hang on—"enough, enough, enough." I went off. 
I'm sorry. It's this letdown ending part, all curious 
and crushed up, but otherwise touched. (signed) 
Sweetness.