Is this the stuff of dreams?
fractured images of the past,
a mirror, absent glass,
the themes of movies
intermingled with the motives
of the mind’s attempt to interpret
the tenacious trivia
of a life lived in an unforgiving body.
The moving pictures of a memory
almost full, the impatience
the clearance sale of one’s soul,
where the hole in my world
swallowed the hollowed mountain
of my ambition.
The kiss that left an abyss
in my sensibility,
bereft of destiny, the density
of the sea I cannot swim across,
holds me fast, holds me down,
holds me to the cost of caring,
holds me to the promise,
repairing small parts without recompense,
asked for or otherwise,
it holds me to the mother of all junkies,
allowing me to suckle the lies,
so I can tell myself: no surprise,
you can always fuck your knuckles.