pigs in (my) space!

just because i cast my leavings-
stale cheerios, one-bite apples,
and even unidentifiables from the
tupperwares of odd fridge corners-
it doesn't mean i left them for you.

my concerns had a more general
and universal bent.
and- to be frank- had a certain
taint of laziness.

nothing- i repeat- nothing
to do with you.
your needs.
the needs of your tomorrows.

much as i'm bewildered
that you chose to invite yourself in,
snouting about and bringing
excitement to the stalemate
of nutgrass and seashore paspalumed lawn,
i'm afraid i've got to draw the line.

this is my space.

you belong somewhere out there
shuffling and rustling
subject to wind and rain
and the feast or famine of
borders and hearts,
the only places my kind
are little interested in.

and my garbage is for the earthworms and compost
and my aim is to recycle myself and my own.

you're on a different wheel.
so spin off, please.

and don't leave any "parting gifts"
on our way out,
neither...

"flare"

i felt i felt a feeling
and it wanted out
and so i let it out

i believed in the beauty of it
believed without seeing it
the way it found its shape
naturally
a clawing flame
a spreading blossom
the traces shaping wind

and you said i had a flare
a flare for it
and i was happy
and you were happy
to leave it at that

but small time passed
and it was apparent
that neither you nor i
were content with flares
and expression needed
refinement and a
continual abstraction
of some subtler quality,

and what's more
something called sincerity.

flares are brilliant,
but i needed to burn long
and bleed.

all true art is about bleeding
it seems
after it stops being fun
and natural
after the flare is gone...

but i miss the days
when i still could feel
and all i had to do
was let it out

let me out.

waste

as they unball my thread
with all its snarls and tangles
one of them will comment or complain
at what a waste so much it was
how a tie could have been made here
instead of the vacillating turn away
that became gordian, yanked
and made the reachable tantalus-close.

oh, one will pip, this speaks skeinfuls
of the sin of inefficiency, and
perhaps, of cowardice, laziness, the
hesitancy of mortal men to grasp
themselves in a pinch, and pass the
eye of the needled moment, to
ultimately fail and fray and stray again
and yet again.
i could have woven many lives,
and a far more tapestried world
from the looping life of just this one.

and one will snicker and tsk tsk,
and with a snip, give a snide remark,
tumbling the greater part of a life
to the silent floor:

what a waste.

uninspire

freeze tag the moment between
hitch the flow beneath the tongue
feel the bubble painting red within
the pulse to build a thundering plea

breathing's quite so overrated
so much agains, it's not happening
and happens too easy to be appreciated
so unseen the air grows stale
and carbon-filled the world is
uncomfortably warming

so i'll stop and freeze between
and see what it takes to hold
one sea within from one sea without
and feel the violence of doors
that hold back the commerce
of inevitable tides.

sadness numbs me
plumbs me to the
depths i'd rather not
swim from, so very
sans the light and air
and so very cold.

the moon the lonely moon
reflecting satellite
tonight won't show
won't cast
its face so wan into
this black sea
won't fish for
sympathy, nor analogy
for me.

and without even
crescent hooks
to draw me
the worms so
hungry feast on
me.

one crappy poem from "marsilani2": ode to phlegm

the one entry from marsilani2 that i decided to return to marsilani. nothing worth anything.

ode to phlegm
thanks to you,
my words have more weight
a resonance and a vibrato
that rattles like sabers-
what i say carries
the urgency of car bombs
waiting to go off.

how you goad me
to open my reticent self
how your mysterious fingers
itch the throat in me to roar-
and it is only the desperate courtesy in me
that turns to uninhabited corners
to bid you out.

will you stay?
will you leave?
my stubborn guest, sometimes i think
(as with all who overstay)
god made you to teach us
the appreciation of
the clear and the
empty.

quiet rain
i imagine one cloud
connects you and i-
how, moments back,
the drop that now cries a trail on you
was sibling to the wet stain
on my walking shoes.