AN ANTHOLOGY IN PLOTTING



SONG

The repairman is here
I am still trying to find
the right reason for why we broke up
He is fixing a shower door
upstairs where there is a movie set
for a previous poem.
He is drilling
a money worth of hours
and occasionally in between the hardware sounds he makes
I hear a symphony playing
that’s it, I think, today I feel this way.
I’m writing but not thinking for once
what it could mean
it means all but never anything.
On the left side of my bed there is a void
that’s where I used to put you
I think, that explains why I refuse to fill it now
that explains why after love
we run the madhouse alone, I think,
that explains everything.
Even the plumber.


THE POET’S LOVER

The poet’s lover wakes up everyday, like all of us
The poet’s lover goes to the park and wonders
The poet’s lover suffers from life and if he can, he cries.
The poet’s lover chops up an apple on the kitchen counter on a Tuesday night
and thinks of his mother.
The poet’s lover gets cold with October and warms back up with April
The poet’s lover too, asks life haunting questions.
The poet’s lover flows through time depending on how much he can escape and tame his mind
The poet’s lover stomps his feet and crosses his arms
and despite, everyday, the poet’s lover trusts his path in life.
The poet’s lover tries to see if it is wise to believe in a God  
The poet’s lover sits in the waiting room at the edge of his seat
and tries to find comfort, waiting.
The poet’s lover puts himself to bed, regrets not having changed the sheets in the past month
The poet’s lover answers his phone when it rings
and drafts an unsent email as if it would change anything, and it does.
The poet’s lover loves love too much,
and curls up in pain in spite all the ugliness chooses love, like most of us.
But the poet’s lover gets to read all about his life in some poem,
unlike the rest of us.


ME AS

aside,as me
as life
as cry
as car
aside
put, later
as a pile
on top of love
before, that,
as a lie
as high as high as
now, lie, what
are you telling me
aside
the obvious
besides, I write
it was not
what it is before
I write, what, not, that
is a car
in full speed
I spill
a trunk of thoughts, not
that
but this
is mine, as
high, the pile, aside
I decide to sit
as I cry
as high
put aside the car and the road
and what’s mine, besides that
what is not
I lie, oh yes I’ve lied
aside what I write
as high as
a pile, a poem,
as a side
to life.


SO I COULD HEAR

I closed the door
so I could hear



WE KEEP PLOTTING THE DAYS AWAY

These are not good introductions, I think
then how are we ever supposed to get into things
let alone talking ourselves out of it
and that part hurts, always.
I blame the introduction
for why things don’t turn out our way
if only we had the space
to start with full stops
and to end with comas and short dashes
but in that case,
there would be no story
and we can’t bear that, can we?


WHAT MATTERS

It’s a I’m sorry were you wondering about something?
I smell like yesterday
and yesterday I didn’t know what I was about to do
other than pulling the strings and running enough hours to make sure I would sweat enough
for tomorrow
So maybe I did know what I was doing
but felt more comfortable
not saying,
as you do.
so that the unknown thread
keeps sewing itself while I
marinate myself in my own smell,
now sweat,
but it was love a while ago.
and what about that thing
that thing that kept you away from speaking
that thing that kept me
awake from my own being
that thing that kept repeating
the same tomorrow and the same yesterday, and sweat
is the only thing signaling that things are different now,
I don’t sweat as much
I’d blame it on my new deodorant,
as you do.
The last time I did sweat this much,
my mom would come and change my pajama top, at least two times.
Not a single soul would hear, does it matter,
which one of you was it
that kept me awake at night?