| Textual Transmissions
Discovery Zone
Let Your Fingers Do The Walking
Just Words
Ah-Musing
Other words
Missing Links
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Pen scratches
Kernels of truth here and there, glimpses of someone's personal life (not necessarily my own). Am spinning, riffing and dancing with words in my emotive imagination.
So, if you think you know me and you think I've woven you into my textual transmissions? Well, then, perhaps I have, of course, maybe you're just full of yourself, too.
That's a joke.
Laugh some, hey?
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Vanity
Anywhere but here is where I want be
because here is where he is not anymore
at least... not all of him.
I still, unexpectedly, run into intimate pieces
aesthetically graphed onto someone else:
his familiar confident gait, inviting jaw line,
trademark cat-stretch of the shoulder blades.
I can't say how many times
I've wanted to touch that clean bare space
just behind a man's ear after a recent barber visit.
I hear his name just when I think
he is thinking of me because the feel
of his lips once on my neck
warms with the energy of his memory.
These men, though, are not mine to touch.
These men, though, are not him.
These men, though, would not do
even if I were to touch them tenderly,
bring another's open lusty mouth to my breast,
pulse my hips against a strong solid body
open up again and again...these men are not him.
They would cut the wound deeper.
So, I drive in anonyminity
glassed in as if no one could see me cry.
Weary women waiting at corners for bus rides
to somewhere, anywhere, but here see me plainly.
We look into each others' eyes,
mesmerized by fatigue and silence.
Would we, could we, should we trade places
play at being the princess with the paupers?
Exchange my rings, my money, my car:
all my worldly possessions for some peace of mind.
Would they be me?
Would they escape being poor in mind?
Would I find peace in nothing?
Is all that we need do to be happy is move over
a few decimal points?
Scoot up and down the scales,
be worth our weight in untold lies and blue skies.
I don't need something to really cry about
I just need something real besides these thoughts.
Because the truth is no matter what I print
across those blank looks,
any thoughts I think I may have shared
exist only in my mind.
In a moment, a flickering of lights,
I will be gone anywhere, somewhere away from here.
All that did, or that I believe transpired
between us will be left behind
with each cyclic revolution propelling me further
through a vector of time, distorting the past
drawing me closer to my future,
and arcing me towards somewhere far from here.
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