Soulful Jazz

Breathe in, breathe out

In perfect rhythm

Lungs contracting, drawing in

a stale, tepid air that cannot compare

All signs of a life, lived,

of a life, swollen and full,

but never truly loved

A clock perfectly wound

Always meant to run out early

Tears in such sheer fabric

Pulling until skin shows

A precious mahogany

Beautifully particular

Exhalations on the tempered glass

Drying into streaks

Capturing a series of moments

that are gone far too soon

Like this breathing in

This stammering wish to feel again

This breathing out

On my own.

Through a Glass, Darkly

These empty streets sit at ninety degree angles
As they’ve always done before
But I never knew this
Blinded by their artificial horizons
Caught up in the cadences of the people
Their unscripted weaving in and out like ants
Constructing fragile nothings out of thin air
That dissipate on the incoming breeze

So this is Armageddon, I think to myself,
Where silences breathe and count to ten
Then breathe all over again
But I’m not breathing, not taking it in
Except to hyperventilate in time
To the metronome of my vibrating heart
Stuck inside this ticking timebomb
I know will detonate any second now

This clinging makes me hate myself again
These days fractured and fragmented as such
Warn me that I’m as empty as these streets
Barren as the wasteland from which I was born
These black birds harbingers of an afterlife
I was never promised, nor wish to receive
But the gods are observing intermission
And I’m breathing in, waiting to exhale

I remember tipping cows in Arizona
Or at least the huffing and puffing for nothing
Trying to fit in with people who don’t matter
And I miss it like I miss garlic, and crosses,
And cemeteries at high light, shadows ready
Walking until I can’t remember my name
All as distant from me now as Tony’s Pizza
Taken over by cobwebs the size of artichokes

I look out my window and no one stares back
A solitary soul walks slowly down the avenue
She obviously doesn’t know it’s dangerous
Doesn’t know the sky is a cleaver, raised high
To chop her down so she’s my size, miniscule
As seeds buried deep in the soil
But I’m stuck behind glass, a caricature
Of myself, not really caring how the show ends

Just hopeful I won’t get written out
Like all the others, behind shades, so cold
They chill me to think of their souls,
Floating like sprites in the air
But I’m not breathing them in
I’m squeezing my eyes shut and counting
Until one thousand, then I’m starting again

I don’t know what else to do.

These empty streets sit at ninety degree angles
As they’ve always done before
But I won’t let them seduce me anymore.

The Memory of Breathing

Every sigh
Tucked in at night
Hospital corners
Harsh antiseptic
This caged tiger
Turned out demure
Fragmented as such
Waiting to exhale

How odd it seems
This dissembling
Conscious of change
In a static world
A commentary
On symbolism
Without symbols
Taking on water

But I can’t drown
In the memory
Of breathing
Even ragged
So complicated
I wish I could
Like dragonflies
In the absence of light

She haunts me
From the shadows
The shallows of pain
Wetting my feet
Whispers in the dark
Shattered consequence
Knit back together again
Like this heated skin

In the midst of a keening
So clear and fragile
Echoing clean
Polluting virgin ears
With an honesty
That complicates
Before it heals
And finally scabs over

But the message is lost
In the scar tissue.

The Vagaries of Space

There is friction
In the space between
Your skin and mine
Fabric against fabric
Soul to soul
This heat stirring
Quite forbidden
Tempting as it is
Such a distraction
A pulling of strings
A taste of bittersweet
Kissing your lips
Static electricity
In your embrace

But I’m standing still
Watching the rain fall
Lost in a nostalgia
That is no longer real
Caught up in dreams
That never come at night
That bleed me clean
These vestiges of a love
That never should have been
Wrapped in tissue paper
In the back of my mind
Except when you’re around

So I practice avoidance
A turning of the phrase
A shifting of routine
This neatening of my life
These consequential sighs
That lead me nowhere
This tying up of strings
This copper-smelling rain
And life, and consequence
And all that’s in between
Fighting for a release
That will never come
Except in the spaces
That I can’t help saving.

Not A [Test]

This is not a test
Not a chance to change
Or translate
Not the second coming
Before the first
Not a contemplation
Or a transmission
Of ill-begotten love
That pulses as it moves
Trapped in sentimentality
Patient to a fault

This is not a mission
Couched in platitudes
And promises for more
Because life doesn’t care
It doesn’t choose sides
Or give us more chances
It doesn’t beat drums
And there is no box
No tricks of the eye

Unshakable in its permanence
Perfect in its imperfections
Yellow golden in the sun
Until night falls
And the coyotes come
Until features blur
When an end is a beginning
Then comes around again

This is not a broadcast
Not static in the feed
Or interference
Not an equivalency
Or a disconnection
Not a representation
Of our failures and sins
Painted by number
This is not a test

Until it is.

Browns & Grays

So much balances
Upon the sharpness
Of a knife’s point
To cut out the night
A yielding of wills
Fractalized by light
A smattering of rain
Shot through with color
And disillusionment
Such old friends
Grasping at hands
And scattered clothing
On the kitchen floor
These wet shoes
Drying at midnight
Conjoined like twins
But not for long
Like the streetlamps
Flickering off
When the sun returns
To claim the city
As its bastard child
But morning reveals
The browns and grays
That were always this way
Before the canvas
And the acrylics
Laid it all to waste.

[Inspired by Afremov’s “Rain’s Rustle.”]