93- viewfinder videos

days before it felt as if i was watching my life
through the window of a camera;
hitting play and rewind at will to will you
back here, back in the chair next to me,
willing your voice to work its way into my ear.
just like before. the stroll past an old building
led to viewfinder videos of me running
up to the door and into your arms, or of me stealing
one last look up to your window late at night.
but now the camera can stay shut, that chair
is actually inhabited by your body, corporeal. again.

92- its paces

keep the car running, i can't stay
here for much longer. fingers itching out an
impatient hum, drumming the still air.
some people move to keep things whole, too
much of a responsibility for me. i move to
keep moving, to stop thinking, to stop dwelling
on any given problem. the moment a moment hangs
in the air a little too long, a pause, the brain starts
doing its paces in my skull, back and forth and back and
it doesn't stop unless i'm moving. keep the car running.

91- exerpt

this is based on an untrue story, a falsity, a habit
of imagination. rather than facts (that is, hard cold information stored
deep in a database) this uses synaptic connections that have
yet to be pruned (as they are maladaptive thoughts, that
only cause problems). every little action gets put through
this wringer of mine, of my brain, each touch (or lack thereof) or
word or breath gets put into the "what-if" machine: what-if you pulled
your pinky away because my hands get too clammy, and you don't
love that any more? what-if you didn't kiss me goodnight because
you're sick of doing that every night? what-if we fall out of love?
what-if i can never stop running through these horrible situations?
what-if these are my downfall? what-ifwhat-ifwhat-ifwhat-ifwhat

then reality starts in again, and i smell your skin as i kiss
your shoulder and realize that the machine has clicked on, and i
throw it out the window of my subconscious. you are here, present,
i am yours and you are mine and that's what is real.

90- (silent)

poetry::
leaves rustling                          (wind shifts.)
grass whispering                (footsteps fall heavy.)
dew clinging                            (a fog hovers.)


prose::
elaboration                    (each detail in excess.)
enunciation                (specific, precise wording.)
narration                (guiding through the pathway.)


music::
swell           (emotions building, higher and higher.)
rest                                   (take a breath.)
beat                         (repeat, again and again.)

89-illumination

so, what did i see? there between the branches, under
                    rocks wedged together, vines all 
                    tangled hither and thither, bugs
itching at my legs, wind rustling my hair out of its
tight confines. so what did i see? with the sun above
                    my head glistening down, clouds 
                    sparse but pleasant, present. i 
saw all those things but none at all. they were there
in my view. so what did i see? i could see only one 
                    other, only needed to see one,
                    climbing through with reckless
                    abandon of a child's heart, and
felt only that this was right, despite the stinging of
the sunburn and the nettles and the branches. that is 
                    what i saw. 

88-actually

actually, it's interesting, isn't it; how two people
performing the exact same actions
feel
completely different emotions and consequences and reasons
and.
one stretches a leg out of fatigue, and feels relief, while
the one beside stretches a leg just to feel anything, any
slight
tingle of sensation. just going through the motions in case
they can elucidate the same response. it never works
though.

87- just because

scene I. a cloud hangs lowly in the distance
           just for the ambiance
setting the stage for the players of our scene
no, not quite right, the air quality needs to be a bit more
           hazy,
this isn't right, where are the helpers, the stagehands?
i'm working here, people, i can't do this by myself.
come on, pull those clouds by the wisps and direct them 
stage left, the wind can't do it fast enough.

scene II.
rain slowly putters its soft feet on
the rooftop, mulling over the ideas in its head. it 
cant recall its directions, did the liner notes say 
           fall slowly
or was it more of a
           lazily drift to the right
kind of thing, to give the illusion that this wasn't planned,
wasn't prearranged.
how could it be, there's no reason for rain to be falling now,
you know? things are going too well for there to be
a downpour just because.