11 February 2009

miriam matzeder

admit one

this was so lazy
a sort of humid
so careless and
white clothes
Italian restaurant
too much wine
and smiles
Goddamn sleepy
blankets up to
here with
this mouth
turned up
except at some
point the
nostrils are
bored out by
a racing
unable to locate
an exit
and technicolor
imaging which
turns in on
itself and springs
back to life like
die cut fold out
greeting cards
with generic
lines like
My Deepest
or something
equally morose

a stoplight swinging

sitting at the intersection
a stoplight
i notice this man watching me
from a Buick in the next lane
i feel self-conscious when
i imagine what he might
be thinking
she looks sad
staring at
a stoplight
and i have this overwhelming
urge to turn up the music
and put on a big fake smile
maybe drum with my fingers
on the steering wheel
he'd have to feel less sorry
for me then
we'd both be off the hook
he wouldn't have to feel bad
for what i've put myself through
and what is to follow
and i wouldn't have to feel pitied
by some guy in a beat up old
Buick with a sagging headliner


i try to keep my mind on
other things
but that lasts maybe one-
hundred-and-twenty seconds
and then i'm back to thinking
about the way he turns his head
uncharacteristically slow
a quiet panning like clouds mulling
over their place above the earth

and all else
brake lights in traffic
a time and temperature sign
the opening and closing of a
black mailbox while dogs bark
amount to nothing more than
the accumulation of unsatisfactory
moments which fade away as
unsurreptitiously as they began

the reason i procrastinate getting out of bed in the morning

the first thing i think of in the morning
is how i would not want
to remove myself from that bed

you know the one
the bed where He sleeps
synapses firing under eyelids

you get what i'm saying, right?

you like him so much that you don't selfishly
consider anymore that he might be dreaming about you
instead, you consider simply that he dreams

and that you get to watch

you think about kissing him
that broad, straight line
a linear assembly of bone and flesh
scaffolding from shoulder to shoulder

his head, normally sentient of all his surroundings
now pillowed and sleepy, lulled by your poetic ether
you consider putting your hand in front of his face just to feel
his breath, but what if he wakes up and thinks you're nuts?

(or worse, he isn't asleep like you thought and has now
witnessed the real you – a child singing into a hairbrush)

go back to watching him where it's safe
find magic in how his body exists, warm
despite the cool room
curl up in your dumbfoundedness

it's fucking sick

maybe you are the forearm and i am the cheek

i was wondering if weather really ever
changes and that maybe the only changes
made are in how we view that weather

maybe we're all in unison and seeing things
and there is no me or you but instead a we
that so rarely works together as whole fabric

maybe we're all pulling in different directions
and all our promotion of pride in self
is a bunch of crap

maybe you are the forearm and i am the cheek
and he is the heel and she is the sternum
and we keep ripping a body apart

perhaps the biblical reference regarding your brother's
keeper is a message framed for those stupid people Jesus understood
would never believe God came up with something like science

maybe we are all little black holes
and all we ever do is
suck the life out of us

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