we are wanting, you and I, for something -- wanting and waiting
we are resting in our corners, exhausted, bruised beneath the skin, denying the damage inflicted by the last flurry and waiting for someone to tell us how to stop the onslaught, how to find our feet and make it through the last round
we are looking for a miracle, you and I, it's perhaps the only thing we share these days, this hoping for the sky to open, for angels to descend wielding sabers to cut away our sad truth ...
how your callouses scrape across the strings and make that long slide, and E lays flat, and stretched out and languorous, and melds into A and then into B7, and that sweet ugly moan, how it comes up as though pulled from deeper'n bone so it's the only sound left and so deep and sad and goddamn blue it pulls the tears out with it
when you were everything and i was something and then nothing
just like that
when i could tell weeks before you said as much with him in the next room waiting and my old boots still under the bed and the rain cold down my neck and me thinking goddamn this is just like a fucking movie except it hurts almost more than i can bear
and how i wondered what i'd done thinking it was me turning every memory over looking for clues when, goddamn, baby, it was just you ...
Life was grinding me down. Whittling away at me. Shaving off an inch here, a pound there. Hair. Muscle. The spare tire I’d been wishing away for months. Hour to hour, bit by bit, I was losing ground on all fronts. By midday Friday I was probably six inches shorter than when I’d clocked in. The boss mentioned it. “You look like hell,” she said. “I’m a little under the weather,” I told her. “It’s nothing.” But I knew better. My clothes hung on me. I had to roll my pants legs up. My shoes flopped around, wearing...
he wondered why he always choked when deadlines loomed, the words dried up he cursed and stood and lit a smoke he wondered why he always choked when bills were due and he was broke he sipped cold coffee from his cup he wondered why he always choked when deadlines loomed, the words dried up
he paced the hall and rubbed his pate and studied names in his book rack "all hooked," he thought, "the writer's fate" he paced the hall and rubbed his pate and poured a drink, for it was late and he could have a heart attack he...
do those words just fall that way? a perfect spill, an earnest spatter, the wound ripped open again, jagged and bleeding, the dark a vacuous hole in a broken heart, the poem some kind of scattershot prayer to indifferent gods or a sonic scream whispered across the page
her girls come braced for the onslaught ashamed that they resent what's left
remnants pressed between the sheets
reminiscent of julie who married john and birthed those girls and held them precious against the onslaught right up until she disappeared
she breaks the surface for an instant when jessie mentions papa but she's gone again even before the story ends, that brief spark futile in the gloam, her sweet blossom spent long before the stalk will die
you, your boy's skin and the girl it held despite itself, and what you were and were not and what i was and what you wanted and us, what we could and couldn't have, you and me
holding hands that night, having danced in the pavillion when that sweet hush veiled a trillion stars but could not stretch long or wide enough to hide us -- your bold fingers, jeweled and delicate in mine as though, yes, god mistook you for a...