my ribcage bares a breadth of knowledge
that somewhere in the deepest darks
of my inward caverns
my blood-alcohol level is, well,
stirring up trouble,

the napkin before me has already begun to absorb
all the condensation that aligns this conversation
and time passes as we talk in circles…
are we still on this?

i'm thinking it's been awhile
but we shall stay to see
the long arm kick the six.

i wish i was a man when i pulled my zipper down
and i wish that i could take it all to the grave with me
along with that secret you keep,
every touch and thrust and trusting burst
of words and ennui...

i'm so sad to see, us stuck in neutral,

and thus it comes to pass that you appear now
only in the idiosyncrasies of others,
in books with characters who walk unafraid,
in patterns not meant to be patterns at all,
just something abstract and tragically out of place

lest us not move forward…

i write words without watching where i'm going,
hitting barriers along the way,
just like you take clothes off, habitually
without watching where you're heading
and together we are a mess
alone we are a disaster
but together we're a mess of beautiful emptiness
or something less abused
and symbolically more poetic,

soggy napkins and glasses filled to the bottom with ice
remind me of those final sips
of wine or beer or something harder...
and we're inside and we're in love and we're in trouble,
and we're in this for the long haul, and it's taking too long

i recall everything about your freshly shaven face
with eyes, so un-pedestrian,
eyes that vacuum images;
your discretionary viewers, and i recall
at times your face was made of nothing but lies, to me,
so you'd work hard, working over-time
to turn all your talk away from cheap,
what a high price i'd pay for hot air

truth is,
i needed truth without the side of honesty,
fuck, i'm modest enough, so just lie to me
show me brutality and i'll show you what cards i'm holding,
just pretend to care,
as if i'm writing words and you're removing underwear
i'm in no need of another reminder,
you too do not need to act as a personified reflection;
fed to me through mirrors,
reality bites hard enough without encouragement,
so do what we came to do and quit the small talk,

{this shouldn't take away my hours}

pull our privacy down until it's anchored to our ankles
and we'll waltz around the central issues,
reliance,
admittance,
consequence,
denial, oh sweet denial
and we are stuck
on
not betraying
our values
for petty bullshit
like good looks and the hunt

and i'm right back where i started
with my liquor-ish tongue and my lack of self-esteem,
and i'm once again reminded that
self-doubt is the greatest form of self-defense
and i'm the best offender,
always feeding the same dead horse
until the headache behind these eyes
begins to feel like a photocopier;
the same bright light scanning over and over and over
green – white – the darkness
the touch – the fusion – the art of being alone

and i'll be, we'll still be, on this,
all over this unspoken elephant in the room,
neon pink, dressed for the circus, playing an instrument,
juggling kittens and riding a bike,
could it be more obvious?
another sip and yes we're still on this…

if i had myself a megaphone you'd never hear me,
if i stood myself on a soapbox you'd wash your hands of hearing me,
i could carve it in your chest and you'd fail to look down

so let's beat this bitch...

i must appear to be some sort of dancing monkey,
a drunken monkey, performing yet again in circles,
gosh we love that shape,
overplaying lowlights and re-arranging the highlights
all to better suit you,
pretending that there was any attempt at avoiding the
inevitable,
the snowball effect... is melting,

no beginning and no end…

and we're still beating the same dead horse,
four legs going nowhere,
the vacant stare
the one that says we don't have to be here,
and the napkin nearby proves how badly i have to piss,
like a race horse,
more liquor to our lips
and we're riding the same dead horse,
our poison, our passion, our prison.

here's to another terribly bad idea,
cheers.

10/15/2005

Author's Note: I love frankie sanchez... yes i do. without his genius i would out of breath.

Posted on 10/15/2005
Copyright © 2010 Nicole Hyde