Camelot, Crumbled

You knew just what you wanted

there was nothing else to find,

you say it with conviction

as if fate was tightly twined.

I would not like to ruin

a goodwill of any kind,

that is why it hurts again

to ask you to change your mind.

tastesmellfeelhearlook

Perhaps you will never acquire the taste

that will hold these words on your tongue,

to savor that savory, sweet flavor

of a phrase cooked to please your unique palate.

Perhaps you will never take in the aroma

from the specific use of speech, of lingo

and jargon, and slang, peppered and salted

into the otherwise plain paper.

Perhaps you will never take a hold of these words

with your own two hands so that you can feel

what each shape of the letter feels like

as it plays through your fingers.

Perhaps you will never hear the poetry

unless it is spoken aloud to you, and even then

its translation, its meaning, its nuance lost

in an ever-evolving language.

Perhaps you will never look upon it. Perhaps these words

get tucked away into a safe place away from your eyes

where you will never see just where

this all happens to lead.

It has to lead somewhere, but where?

Somewhere good? Somewhere bad?

The only certainty is that we can’t find out here.

Journeys seldom happen when no one takes a step.

Perhaps It would be foolish for me to hold on to

that part of my heart that rightly belongs to you.

Highs and Lows

The only thing keeping

my feet on the ground

is a persistent love

both anchored, unbound.

Unbound, and yet keeping

me floating so low

is that very same love

I’m honored to know.

While the Accordion Remembers

Why don’t they go and play

the waltzes past midnight

while the world drifts away

to their eyelid ballet?

Could it be, mon ami,

that the strings do grow tired

while accordions weep

for the ones lost to sleep?

Friday Night Soliloquy

It’s Friday night

and everything is exactly as it seems.

There are no strained metaphors

in your words or mine,

no cliches, no similes,

no subtext, no context needed.

There’s a chill in the air

that means nothing more

than the fact that it’s a cool evening.

Even the wood crackles in the fire

with impunity.

When we don’t speak, there is a neutral silence

that overtakes the scene. When we speak again

then our voices carry through the reverberations

to each other and to no one more.

All seems well.

Everything is exactly as it seems.

Brave

Be brave.

Be resilient to the night

and its waning light.

Be bold and fight the cold

that will settle on

the stationary soul.

Be safe so far as safe allows.

And even then

be brave.

The Cameraman (IV)

[continued]

and sometimes, when it is impossible

to sleep or to wake

it all just ends with wondering.

wondering what it is was missed

and what it is was gained

when in truth

it all happened out of sight,

out of mind,

out of heart,

out of pocket,

out of frame.

it looked like everything, felt like nothing.

we would search for something, anything

to fill the void.

but something was always missing

The Cameraman (II)

It was all so perfectly framed

with what limited vision

was available. They were captured.

The lighting immaculate.

Through heavy breaths and deeper sighs

they struggled for air.

Blood and teeth painted context on the floor.

I felt pity in the wreckage, serene silence

overtaking the scene

as the cheers of a countless crowd

rang in my ears.

“What’s your story?” I asked, for when the world

would see the art I could have only dreamed

of making. Pity. It could be more.

They answered two words

in unison, gurgling blood and bile

and ill-gotten conviction:

“I won,” they said.

The Cameraman (I)

Where do the cameras come from

that so perfectly and candidly

capture the moments of life

deemed acceptable for public consumption?

Who, or what, follows

with an itchy trigger finger

to snap the shots of spontaneous love,

of perfect symmetry, of realness

(so long as the virtuous opportunity

strikes in safe distance?)

What life does the camera film?

What eyes long to see these staged moments

in this, these fleeting moments

of a messy, real, beautiful life?

Alternate Universes

I reckon this is the part

where we say “goodbye”

and dry our eyes

and make our way

to the opposite sides

but only make it

as far as the frame

before we turn around

and run back

shamelessly

into each other’s arms.

But instead

I’ll probably end up

leaning uncomfortably

against the posts,

half turned around,

wondering why you

didn’t even bat an eye

when you shut the door

behind you.

I reckon this is the part

where we try to prove each other wrong

by proving each other right.