Archive for the lonlieness Category

Forgot your password?

Posted in art, artsy, creative, creative writer, creative writing, lonlieness, morning, original poems, original poetry, poems, poets with tags , , , on May 19, 2015 by unsensible

Life is a Password that I forgot to remember – and wouldn’t write down – the last time I had to change it
because I misremembered the old password
(between 3 to 6 generations of passwords ago)
for a web site I don’t recognize and can’t understand how and when I registered.

And I should be working, but facing a dozen open browser windows, I can’t recall what I was doing in the first place.

I can conjure up the timelines and origins of the many wrong passwords
I can remember why I made and what it meant to me
in theĀ ancient history of nostalgic 2014, 2013, 2012, 2011, 2010, and distantĀ 2009.

When I lose my mind, social media will be the most reliable record of what I was actually thinking
I’ll go online to learn about more about myself
and my stunning lack of foresight.


What a Piece of Work

Posted in creative, creative writer, creative writing, lonlieness, original poem, original poems, original poetry, poem, poems, poet, poetry, portrait, Uncategorized, writer, writing with tags , , , , , on March 26, 2015 by unsensible

Consider this the basis of your daily affirmation
Acceptance and endorsement for excessive masturbation
Inalienable permission to drift sidelong into traffic
On opiates, and delusions, and a constant buzzing laugh track
Be utterly assured of your festering uncertainty
Of healthy suspicion and apoplectic insecurity.

Man, what a piece of work we are
Infinite in rocky reasoning espoused in shady bars
Expressed in the universal belching of frustration
Devolving deniability and lusty admiration

How like an Angel, flightless, drunk, and apprehensive
An ersatz son of God comes home when drinks get too expensive

A Coward’s Cadence (Keep Emergency Exits Clear at All Times)

Posted in art, artist, creative, creative writer, creative writing, creativity, lonlieness, original, original poem, original poems, original poetry, poem, poet, poetry, Uncategorized, writer, writing with tags , , , , , on March 14, 2015 by unsensible

I’ll fall into you,
if you want me to
make your breath the atmosphere of that moment of my time

But I’ve got your back (while I’ve got mine)
With fine schema of all the fire
escapes, steel doors, and emergency signs

In an age when nations, loves, and creditors boldly
Draw retroactive boundaries squarely behind me
In practical, unemotional Maginot Lines

Marching backwards, hold your arms out and I’ll show you mine
Bearing firearms overheated in the fullness of time
May you and god forgive me my shamelessness of candor
if I insist cowardice is the finer part of valor

The room is paid for

Posted in art, artist, artsy, creative, creative writer, creative writing, creativity, lonlieness, original, original poem, portrait, prose, short story with tags , , , , , , , , on March 7, 2015 by unsensible

In the brandy glass light of the beside lamp
Fluted like the hips of some ancient fertility goddess
She thumbs the satin elastic coral straps of her underpinnings
Over the rounded promontories of diminutive shoulders
Into the hollows of her collar bone
With a muffled snap that fills the plush, padded cell of Room 656.

On close examination, in the amber drip of the bureau mirror
Her body seems a half-formed thing
A slight, stripling sally, ribs and elbows sticking at opposing angles
Who fills a midnight dress like rolling choir crescendo
Of deep wine laughter, subversive mouth corner smiles, and music unplaceable

She tries to imagine what she’ll look like in ten years
But no image will come, no beginning and no ending
She tips an ash into an empty water glass next to a “No Smoking Please” plaque on the desk

The barest strip of lace borders an unremarkable breast
Barely a shadow at her sternum
She twists at the waist to examine the bruises
incriminating thumb marks at her hips and waist
To the small of her back and the nape of her neck

Whatever is out of place she’ll put right lock by lock
Auburn curls, burgundy lips, swelling lashes, and the hug of her midnight dress
All removed with frenzied, primal, violent discord
Returned in unremarked silence
Alone in a room that snuffs the life out of sound and time in a susurrus hush of dignified understatement
Alone in a room that’s paid for till 11 a.m.
Five minutes from the crack of a closing door
The solitude is stifling

The liquescent blue of her eyes streaked with ceremonial ash
Impossible to tell if she’s been crying
In the buzzing of her head she’s not sure
She averts her eyes as she finds the bathroom
She’ll look for her shoes
Before the walk to the train