Words, words, words.

But It Certainly Does Endure

Time passes and makes your memory a dollhouse,

all tiny manipulatives and desperate to-the-left-of.

There I am, standing in a doorway - forever in a doorway -

never admitted to any room, always moved to thresholds.

Is it "pawn"? To never admit me, to always leave me

waiting at a precipice? I would wait until colors fade,

until these waxen arms melt, until these eyes go grey.

You do not allow for such sacrificial play within

the plasticine diorama. No. There - close softly

the house in on itself; I, standing in cusps - you,

sitting at the desk of executive decisions, moving

figures. Dollhouses are crypts for dreaming, idle

playgrounds of ships passing the shores of "could-be."

Silence closes the house; silence closes the sails.

Silence in the foundations. Dolls stand still. Dolls

are folded over and idle to gather dust. Gather dust.

Gather silence and clasp it with motionless hands.

Gather within a picture of your hands, around my throat.

Pantomime resistance. The struggle was a dollhouse

pigmentation, sailing ghost ships, but I suppose, now,

that the choking was real. Gather, memory. Gather, dust.

A Small Thought

I think I am writing about it just to write about it.

"At one point I'm pretty sure I said, 'Go fuck a duck you ducking fuck'"

Incidentally, Most Days I Feel Quite Peaceful

I don't talk to myself

very often these days

I write

some simple words

every night before bed

and shut the book before

it gets to be too honest

but today

I woke and cleaned the drawer

of bills, old things, and et ceteras

came across

some cards and before

I could box away that

urge they were

flung forth and I was

speaking

in the rose madder of the

curtain I drew across all of it

wearing the same pajamas

I've had for three spins

of this;

My Rolodex memory and I are at war

but the

I is determined to have My say.