Beach Week

I.

I am a ghost, drifting unseen through gray halls.

Maybe I died that day, like I thought.

But I stayed to haunt these spaces.

Mine is the melancholy of the dead,

Full of the hopeless

Of nowhere to go,

Nothing to do.

You named me your ancient friend

And called me your life’s love.

And I shared your longing

And I let myself dream.

But the dreams of the dead go unheard

By the god who’s meant to hear them.

I am the blur in the shadows,

The man with the mandolin.

I sing my songs to rooms with no ears.

And no eyes bear witness.

II.

My mouth tastes of smoke, even now.

My throat hurts, and my head

And I wonder if all the choices from last night were good ones.

They felt good at the time.

But then paranoia sets in.

Does anyone know? Did anyone

See the parts of me I try to hide

Behind jokes and smiles

Behind a cool manner and a drunken dance?

I am nonchalant

Or think I am.

But did anyone notice

My eyes linger too long,

My hand grasp at the air,

My heart reach out from my chest

To be drawn back in when I think

Someone is watching?

Daylight Savings Time arrived while I slept.

Sneaky bastard.

He stole an hour from me.

Or maybe

I was living on borrowed time.

And he merely reclaimed what was his. 

To Be Or...?

To be. Of course, to be.

I have no desire to unravel

My mortal coil

Because I know what dreams may come

And they make me want to stay awake.

Yet I am loathe to bear these ills.

Ever do I fly to new ills, praying

New joys await as well.

I am a gull seeking green

But finding only endless sea and sand.

This life is not my own.

It belongs to the thousand natural shocks

My flesh is heir to.

It belongs to you and he and they.

And I draw you all in.

And you eat my insides.

And I delight in the torture.

Because when you’re done, I’ll be free.

Empty.

Myself. 

Happy Birthday

I have burned through 23 years.

The smoke of them fills my lungs with ash.

They came and went and seem so short now.

The days were long

And too many I wished would hurry.

What would I give now?

What would I give now

For another hour

With you

With her

With all of them.

Gone now.

Burned up like those 23 years. 

Well well, '16 Russian

I hear it occurred to them to call upon the Muses of music and war.

Said the pot of stew surveying the room, “Gabriel Grub was carried away.

He used to stop in every night before.”

A garbled word in shaky Cyrillic,

Symbol of an empire fallen, and van Winkle, awake,

Trembling at such a thing.

They seemed rather to think that the old poet-kings were dead, and that gave them license.

Now Samuel, slumping through the halls, contents himself with memories of oils unspilled,

Unaware that what he thinks is nonsense.