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Silence amidst the screams, vacancy, space between darkness and dreams
beyond paisley skies, red velvet mistakes, and muddled remnants of
happenstance and half-lived Tuesdays.
Neverland tenements where landlords fail to repair cracked windows,
broken pipes, and the noxiously rhythmical drip, drip, drip of the sink.
You don’t care anymore.
Deadbolt locks designed to keep your self safe from yourself, or
your type. It gets harder to have faith when held sway by misfortune and
the troubles you create.
Awake, if hardly asleep. Ridiculous notions, infractions on lustful wishes
meant to placate the mind during desperate times or validate your existence
as a lover, has-been; one or the other.
Somewhere in this middle-of-the-night existence, 4:23 slips away, as
only 4:24 can. Time less subjective than one can imagine. Down the hall
the television knows only one volume.
Unfettered anger thrives in this sort of dive, trash bins overflow with
long-forgotten get-rich-quick schemes, recycled promises, and the pursuit
of happiness. Or something like it.
Consumption remains a tireless game, complete with ill-conceived products
and yesterday’s shame. Tomorrow (really today) won’t promise anything anymore.
Less to discover outside any door.
Black noise in a white noise sort of way. Continual reminders of not being alone in
this awkwardness. You hear the echo of booty-call passion in the bedroom above.
It doesn’t mean anything. It never is love.
Sunrise, even sunset, less reason to see. It keeps you awake for another day. Time
even less subjective than it was an hour ago. Close the door on a short night, look
for another reflection in the mirror.
Underneath the pizza crusts and bad fast-food choices, empty calories and
abandoned wine bottles, a Bible sits in a box you never look in. You can’t deal with
the guilt. Or the lies.
©2017 j.g. lewis
Posted on April 28, 2022 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
How many relationships
have been remembered, or explored,
in the attempt to forge a perfect poem?
Memory reminds you of your place.
It doesn’t matter, now or then,
who devised your initial reaction
to the many sorry mistakes.
How many regrets,
how many evil thoughts, forsaken
sentiments or countless untruths
have you counted on, or encountered, in
an effort to scratch out your prose into
a form another human may accept, yet
allow you to go on living?
How many mornings, how many
pencils, how much coffee, has been wasted
trying to find the right word?
Each purposeful letter you surrender to
a page has been there, here, or
elsewhere before.
If only your cluttered thoughts.
No poem is perfect, even those from bards
you envy or admire. They too had faults
as countless as your own.
It is through collective imperfection that
we learn and continue learning.
Without flaws we have so very
little to write about.
© 2022 j.g. lewis
April is Poetry Month
we’ve been here before
Edge of darkness,
dusk signals the forthcoming night.
Fears settle, or are intensified.
As a child, my Mother called out my name;
a sign the evening was done.
City streetlights had just come on,
it was time to come home.
Dusk, then, signaled security
Twilight marked the beginning of the night for a teenager.
Time to spread seeds, share youthful conquests.
Adolescent dreams came alive.
Turn off the headlights.
We grow up at night,
learn the pleasures of another human’s body;
young women (or older)
who will, in many ways, turn you
into an man.
By nature, and by choice, you discover how
your body fits into another.
After dusk you learn
the secrets of the night. And responsibility.
Morning’s light will bring a new reality.
It was not always what your mother said it was.
© 2022 j.g. lewis