maudlin

bits of mullein in the light
my gentle promiss
persuasion song
hello?
it's my last time, roll a louisiana cigarette
some hickory street smoke
no
something about it
something about me liking
something about me
I'm liking me
the acoustics I'm all about
my environment, you know
my environment

I love Kyle
I love Kayla

but they won't be coming back
....................................................................
last night at 8241 Hickory St, New Orleans

dear old ones

? I think I missed it. And you have, & we know it. I know where you are, too. Do you know about me? never alone? I can see us seeing us seeing me, watching out for you. But for where? is it the sound of a drink hitting your glass? is it about the truths we told, and the one question I shouldn't ask. but will pretend to have not.

How many noses at which I have wondered. And eyes, your celebritorial eyes. Like all the famous men, with the old creases surrounding. And another, yours, with the darkblack lashes. And yours, changing always hazel blue. But the noses. The ones I remember for years & years. The length of one, thin and so sharp I think my soft cheek might cut open on it. &  I can't crave this sight. The possibility of a slice made by one is devastating enough. I'm of a devastation persuasion & have had all I could want of you.

The indifference of a cheek turned, the casual phrases carried through the radio, translated text... the questioning high-pitch of an uncertain voice. The questions which aren't questions. Honesty displaced; too nervous to make attempts for it. The solo opportunity. The failed friend. The mediocre tries, the givens up. My own wishes at communicating bodiless. The mouth & mind, and the staring across a table. The regrettable disappointment inevitable, caught it cold this time.

beaver moon

and we wonder to see it through the grey, tonight. The air is colder and the rain comes down as if in prophesy. And I'm going there in gulps/ \just accidents. The sky from a window view from sitting here crosslegged with the left falling into a deep sleep on the beige sheets of 500threadcount egyptian cotton one lighton, to the left illuminating otherwise just that window in me, the textured sky now because of rain like a fuzz on a screendoor, mini webs built by mini spiders, microscopic chasms filled all-ways with silken threads too small to see or touch or be swept by...... The creosote in the windowbars, tree leafless for Autumn and nearing to december closer everyday. A horn beeps just once below, cars splash the walks, I anticipate umbrellas, even those of a lepoardprint persuasion, and then in later dates of future the songs I will write sadly to sing whilst idly a keyboard is touched, and training my own throat and hair and instruments. Only the warm keys beneath the heels of hands and pads of fingertips. My water is full of waves like the messy ones, ones which capsize a floatboat at the laziest overestimated swash, swishing it over upsidedownwards just because of confusing spell, slepp slepp slepp.