are more than the real living more.

Pearlescent and glowy, ethereal and song worthy

so much more than the vapid pudding fleshy creatures that come out at noon

to haunt us with mundane converstaions on the weather or on television

those individuals who trap you in conversations

where no matter how much you step back from them

they step forward into your nostril vacinity

to assault you with their faint scent of stale cheese.

What if their ghost and memory is more interesting.

More distilled and curious and fascinating than the “real mccoy”.

And maybe Mccoy was just a schlep that someone told a nice story about in the aftermath.

What if that’s the better thing than the real thing?
The wishing thing.  The fantastical thing. The mystery thing.

The thing that you acknowledge is better than the true thing.

What then?

Do you sit in your chair and sip tea with the ghost?

Because really, you know that experience might be more sublime and significant than what others might call “real”.

“Real” really isn’t very valuable under those circumstances.

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And because scotch is on my tongue and sleep is an elusive tease right now, I may rant

with a cadence

that wants to be poetry

but falters and trips

like the stumbles of truth against silence.

Time.

Time.

Time.

Tic.

And

Then

Eventually

Toc.

As if it is both infinite and closing in on me.

Expectant and weighty.

How much should be done by now and how much can’t.

So why start anything at all.

And sit and listen to time.

Be its captive.

Be its slave.

Be its despondent fool.

Be its prey.

And wonder how did I come to this?

Feeling both incredibly old and weary with this young face still.

With hope for a far off future

and cement shoes holding you in the singular moment

that drags you ever so slowly down

until you drown

in this ocean of time

that you cannot breathe through.

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Not mine, but yours.

Under my ears during the darkest hours of the night.

When I press out from my eyelids all vapor of worry
before they coalesce into a nacreous mist of

memory or dream, vision or blurred

troubled or troublesome or troubleseeking – which we’ll both admit tends to be my nature.
But steady as your heart beat,

are the humble murmurs of inarticulate blessings and prayers and chants of

delight and wonder at each moment when I feel safe with you.

Soft like a eyelash, potent as stone, ever dear to me until all earths clocks tire and rust.

(what are poetica spontenaiums? my writing exercises to write poetry in under 10 minutes – immediately capturing… something. Most of it is crap. And I don’t care.)

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every second I become more warm and receptive to

the simple joys

that come from being completely loved

and loving completely.

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This rusty blade, blunt and ugly.

That is until I walked by your side

and down this path

and I tripped.

And while you reached out your arm to stop me

from falling, I threw out

my hand

and an arc of hurt

caught you by the arm.

This cannot be undone.

But it was not with malice done.

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