Morning Gratitude
Some mornings I wake, and there is silence.
A deafening stillness…
A hushed lull pinning me between cotton and thread counts.
A deserted solitude rendering me unable to move,
to plot,
to act. Because
some mornings I wake and there is one.
A maddening realization…
A lonely coldness finding me wrapped in cloth for relief.
A hideous resentment pointing to my mistakes,
to my failures,
to me. Because
some mornings I wake to a thousand thoughts of terror.
An anxious intuition…
An unforgiving intellect refusing to rest or forgive.
A relentless mind cycling through ideas to deadlines
to responsibilities
to fears. But
some mornings I wake and there is breathing.
A comforting exhalation…
A warm breeze of air trapping me between duty and desire.
A sweet current rendering me unable to go,
to start,
to escape. Because
those mornings I wake and there are two.
A rare affection…
An uncommon devotion keeping me in your arms.
A freeing safety forcing me to stay,
to adore,
to cherish. Because
those mornings I wake and there is purpose.
A desirous motivation…
An unseen strength saving me from my illogical doubt.
A powerful force giving pause to angst,
to unease,
to hesitation. Because
those mornings I wake and there is you.
And for you, I am grateful.
Adventures of a Dopamine Junkie
Secrets yet made, only discussed.
Breach of trust,
endorphins rush, hidden, denied,
declassified.
Joyride of attraction. I fall.
Fuck protocol!
Appalled at the strength of withdrawal.
I free-fall and wait for the crash.
Heat rash, hot flash, forewarned backlash.
Breach of trust, declassified. Fuck protocol!
There’s a good reason this sestina isn’t titled, I just haven’t thought of it yet.
You rush past me and the record skips.
His milky tone and wit lost in time and space.
Your urgency foils his intention. I Panic!
Replace the needle, reset the track, restart the song.
I fall back into stoned silence and listen
and Pray for the Wicked to save me.
I swoon. Silently. You ignore me
from the other room. It’s Pretty. Odd. My heart skips.
My latest obsession grows. You never listen!
I need affection. I need interest. I need space.
You give me nothing of substance, like a song
with no hook. I listen. I Panic!
My muse, fueled by ramen. I Panic!
Too Weird to Live, Too Rare to die. Is it me?
A slow thunk, thunk, thunk, at the end of the last song,
like hearts, like my restless feet, like a stone that skips
across ponds. The truth of wax invades my space.
I sigh and flip the plate and listen.
Years ago I stopped, refused to listen.
Now, heavy rotation. I obsess. I panic!
My words to paper. They find new breath in this space.
He annoys you. He inspires me. He delights them.
My inner child dances. She prances and skips.
She creates her own beat, her own song.
Tunes for theatre kids. That one song
about the wedding, the one you never listen
to when I’m cleaning the house. It stutters. It skips.
Do I rebuy? Do I replace? Do I Panic!?
Like a Fever I Can’t Sweat Out. Is it Me?
It’s you, but I lie! Blame lack of space.
No Vices & Virtues? Is there space?
Of course! There is always space for a new song!
Or twelve! The decaydance! Stacks of gatefolds beside me.
The Hush Sound. The Boy Falls Out. The smart ones listen
to The Death of a Bachelor. Still! You don’t Panic!
Not like I do. My heart skips, skips, skips.
The record skips, again, as you enter my space.
Still, you don’t Panic! But I still play the song.
You still never listen! Is it me?
Only Child
There’s a yellow hippopotamus in the pantry.
He lives behind the broom.
He squished between some cans of peas
and hasn’t got much room.
His derriere’s up in the air
and I’ve never seen his face.
Perhaps he should move to my brother’s room
where he would have more space.
Invention
Have you met the inventor of nothing?
The dullest man that I know,
He just sits in his chair, he hasn’t a care,
watching his nothing plants grow.
His invention isn’t very useful,
especially if it gets stuck in your head.
So I’m going to boycott his nothing,
and I’ll invite something instead.