Thursday, January 10, 2013

Old Hands

I have old hands,
But that doesn't have to mean
They are rough.
They are simple,
Delicate hands that yearn
To brush a bit of hair
Behind a woman's ear,
With fingers that linger
Down her back
In the heat of a moment;
A moment that may
Double or triple its own time
Do to passion.
It is true, my hands
Have known women.
They are old hands, and what
To expect from the elderly?
I may not be the norm
But am still quite inviting,
I assure you.
These hands began to wrinkle
At the age of eighteen
Now with years gone by
In numbers I dare not announce
You may be able to catch
Their age from counting veins.
Be aware, hands age
At the same rate as hearts.
They are the one part of
A man that says how deep
His soul may be. And maybe,
How lovely. I have old hands.
If only you could learn to love me.

Thursday, January 3, 2013


New Note

Make sure you stop
Pulling your feelings
Out of your mouth
Like a handkerchief
In a magic trick
Not everyone likes magic
Some like it too much
Some are not ready
And others don't understand

Remember its not easy
Being who you are
Each lost love is a toe
You have to cut off
At this point it's getting
Difficult to walk
And at no point does anyone
Wish it to be
Difficult to stand

Instead of pulling
The handkerchief out 
Let it disappear
And one day someone will
Find it and ask if its yours
Only then change
Your magic trick back
Respond with:
"Would you like to find out?"


It's been some time now since you left and I can tell you, I'm not sure if I've mourned too much or not enough. Everything is far from normal as I stare into this abyss of an apartment. I see through the clutter of clothing and things strewn in the living room like it is dead bacteria; invisible and ineffective. It is in this moment that I realize my walls are off-white. We're they always that way? Did your radiant features fronting their backdrop cause me to perceive the walls to be more angelic in color? Maybe my thoughts are backwards... Maybe they are white, but I perceive them to be as bleak as my life seems now. I haven't moved from this couch in three days seeing as my bed still smells of lavender. Sweet soft lavender. Even your lips gave off that fragrance as you spoke me me. Lavender.


When we first locked eyes
You blew me away
With the bits of breath
You had already drawn
From my lungs
Frozen stiff
Unmoving yet rattled
An image so perfect
A camera couldn't capture it

We we first spoke
It was of Steinback
And all that is east of Eden
A place where we belonged
But when I learned of your lover
I was broken
Picked up and put back together
To one day belong to another

I only ask
That you keep my breath
You have taken from me
And remember the way it tastes
In hopes that one day it will flow
Within your veins

Beauty in a Bar on a Wednesday Afternoon

We are alone. Each surrounded by a few small groups. I am wondering if I can work up the courage to start a conversation, but I have nothing to converse about except how pretty you are (and how I'm pretty uninteresting). People laugh and chat about school and curse their professors for assigning grades that were most likely earned. The Foosball pawns feet are up like a team of synchronized swimmers; rusty spikes impaling their bodies with no means of playing the game that defines them. I sip on my beer and continue listening to the conversation over my shoulder, while remembering not to take at least one of my eyes off of you. They are spewing off political opinions and laughing and drinking. I know if I wanted I could impress most; spout off opinions of my own with facts to back them. I am quite impressive, but those words wouldn't impress you. I'd sound like another one of them and what's so special about that? Sometimes acting smart isn't the smartest thing to do. I can't tell if you are looking at me or through me but it doesn't matter. My wish of having you won't come true any time soon. Another conversation to my left is muffled chatter about philosophy, or quality or... something. Behind you the bartender tries to talk to someone, but even the regulars don't know who she really is. Each piercing she has added to her body has sunk her deeper into her lonesome life. Thirteen grams: thirteen reasons to stay. She's not even good at pretending to be happy, but then again neither am I. The conversations in the bar no longer co-exist, beginning to blend into a low drone. I catch your eyes as they glow green from the streak of sunshine through the one window in the bar. We are silent.


When she wept I handed her
A pail to slip her tears into
She was graceful as she cried
And ate and slept

Sometimes I think
Thoughts I thought some time ago
If I'd recognize her piney perfume
Or her soft chirp I once
Sung with harmoniously

Her hair now dove white
Light rays hit with ease
Having done all they could
For discoloration

And I can't help but wonder
What outcome may have come
If I had thought to hold the pail