writing

a little poem entitled, “oh”

the bareback streets,
thought to be as terrifying as the night itself,
the dwindling time,
what with its constant threat of ceasing to continue,
your lack of words,
and perhaps my gift of gab, or so some call it,
breezy type gusts wind through the porch where we dwell,
where that black coffee smell wafts up and through the cracked doorway,
and tea for the tillerman is slowly, but surely,
playing along in the background, helping us realize
that silence is deadly.

eyes flicker with what the day brings.
whether that be rage, surprise, or ease, doesn’t seem to let the human apertures
take breaks, not even short ones.
crunched up stale granola,
dirt engrained under the freshly bit nails,
which by the way have never been manicured.
the sound of chimes making contact with thin rods of steel,
clacking outside the realm in which we sit.

playing cards strewn upon the half-rotted wood,
empty bottles of portocolo and california pinot grigio
plummet out of the electric blue recycle bin,
toxic smoke fumes out of an un-smoked cigarette,
resting, resting, resting,
in the steel dipped tray.

your lips are rounded, as if they huddled
tightly around the words about to exit your mouth,
like the inuit do over a fishing hole.
the eyes that remain as green as the day i first noticed them,
tilted ever so slightly upward, towards the endless sky.
banasuic.
wretched.
heart-breaking.
oh.
it’s not as clear as it ought to be.
my cup isn’t as empty as it was yesterday
and as far as your words,
that are choked out, as if they were forbidden,
alternate with, oh, oh, oh.

oh. it’s not a word of contentedness.
perhaps because we haven’t obtained complete serenity.
oh, a poor excuse not to continue on with this colloquy,
be bigger than expected,
oh, just tragic, just wonderful, just life.
sensibly, i don’t know.
but deep inside… oh i do.
how i do, oh i do.

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