A Forgotten Space
I watch the world through glasses made of lead.
Their cold, gray vision proves most accurate,
if top-heavy. A great deal of weight to carry,
I rest often, lying in pools of pessimistic slush.
My body begins to emulate the texture of seepage,
dreams of becoming quicksand, waits patiently
for the day it crosses its own path and consumes itself.
Another Empty Night
gets filled by my sleepless mind.
Ticks of the clock get counted,
catalogued for no reason
other than the sound of their voice
intrigues me. A staring contest
with the stars (who always blink first)
turns into a conversation
of composition with the moon.
I tell her I would like to sprinkle
bits of her surface into an urn, keep them
as an epitaph to possibility. She laughs,
noncommittally. I turn
to the cable-fed tube of modernity,
baffle over its addictive banality.
Finally, I change
the channel, face another blank page,
wield only my pen as an ax
until one of us bleeds something
that resembles a discernible thought.
I Am Chalk
outline, a designator
of space that once held
a body. Static, I mimic
death. Echoing a need
to look deeper, I am intrigue,
a puzzle to be pondered,
solved, then labeled accidental,
or worse, unnatural.
Silver sliver of connectivity. Metal
stud, designed to join, hold
in place. Lying on floor,
point unnecessary, it stares
at potential pieces, misses
the thunderous pain of pounding,
that one victorious moment
of puncture, of disappearing
into seamless flush.