Thursday, May 03, 2007

pied piper

If you are reading this

It is late
You are tired
Your bones hurt with the irony of knowing
He is not coming to bed
Not coming home
Not sleeping in your embrace,

Face the music when the sun rises
Falter your footsteps to the kitchen, the bathroom – the front door
But look back and compromise – once more
Say this is the last time

The last time you’ll love someone so much you forget that you ever wanted something tangible:
a note, a hug, a kiss, a tug at your braids, a pull for your hips
something that says you aren’t crazy for feeling this
that shreds your nervous system into confetti

Dye your insides fuchsia and forget the blues ever existed
You never liked them anyway
Not even when you showered together
Or when you read the paper – line by line as if his words and your tongue were born like this

And you know now, the silence
Was just the beginning
It was the prelude to all that jazz
And blackened burned molasses turned harsh syrupy sinister
slight the warm-blooded and
Reflect the lives of dead men walking/writers

You fell in love with a poet and blame your mother for not telling you

There will always be another stage brighter than the one in your bedroom
Than the one that connected your eyes to each other
Across the room…that night

You will always believe in him
More than the words he’s stitched to papers himself
SOS’d his soul in between the lines

But, this is not your cue
You will never save him

The phone calls from across the country
Are lifelines sucking away your lifeforce
He loves you enough to not kill you - physically

But, mentally…
He’s already sharpened the sword.
Samurai swung at your skull
And watched your eyes spiral in the wind

I wish this were a metaphor
It’s nothing but plain old English truth;

He was never your God,
Who promised to save your soul, after the altering of your alter
I wish this were a metaphor
But it is nothing but plain paper bag and shoeless truth;

He is of no cloth that will bring pride to African warriors or Kings

He is too beautiful and brilliant and cunning for you to notice
The malicious tongue
That darts between his lips while singing you the same song
He sang for her in Japan, London, Los Angeles, Texas and New York

The words may change,
But the melody is as clear as the flutist stealing
Children from their home:
Empty beds taunting the graves with bare coffins

Lucky you…
To earn the movement of free will and still shuffle your feet from an awakening
So pure

Tell me how much it hurts to hear these words

Find a mirror and trail the reflection of a woman
Once upon a time -- she looked just like you.
Except, she was special


Shelle said...

hauntingly speak for so many, you speak for one. your words cut deep, your words cut necessary. and its not just this piece i am speaking of...u r an amazing writer

joey said... wish it was a metaphor too