Lunatic Fringe

When I think about how you leave me hanging, it all really falls away until I'm left to lie about where it all went wrong. Just about ever right now you're my re-occurring daydream. On good days I bet against banks of morality where I have no account. I wager I'm soon to write all my sins away, a vice of a bid pitting all I may imagine against all the wicked things I've done. I'm certain I'll balance the books a second before I reach hell. Irony: burning eternally a moment after I cease to burn for you. And on bad days payments are called to interest, and I'm left with just my thoughts- for the devil takes his due in the things I might have said to make this all better- and they're all made of gasoline. My brain becomes as much a funeral pyre as a drowning place for well intentioned thoughts. Laboriously, I stoke the embers of memory which smolder here. I wonder incessantly why your father ever bid you carry a flame for me. It is in that instant before i

I'll lay on the couch in a silk bathrobe, dazing in and out of consciousness... you can write me wonderful stories... ... A muse with a missive. Muses inspire creation. I have thought of words to match these visions in the morning. At the midday I rested and pondered not except what was before me. In the afternoon I sought reason in distraction, in time I pondered words to convey these visions. In odd intervals I would speak, in odd moments I would not. In the evening I go to places where men seek happiness, and find a semblance of reason in the plaintiff woes of the day. My problems steal away, I am soothed by the solace of the implacable task before me: Chronicling these silken visions. I think in a vibrant blue, thought-streams patterned after places I've never been. In the night I scheme on words to accompany your suggestions, I can think of none but what you have said most succinctly. These days are wrought with conspiracy to bring to fruition the promise of "lost day

Was there time yesterday love? When last we laid down? The night progressed until everything went backward. But the past cannot be revisited, just remembered. Was it a game in the hallway, when we came together? You smoking just like you swore you never would, me on fire like I swore I’d never be again. Here beside me, the silence is disquieting, everything is calm, I’m writing my thoughts onto the small of your back. You are asleep, and I know no one will ever read these words, least of all you. I have no paper, I have no pen, just flesh on flesh, fingers whispering lithely of mortality on pages the world will never read. I half-think the great bards would weep, could they read the thoughts written here. Quaintly, I saved them all this time, for a day I knew would come, to share them only with you. Quickly, these emotions steal away from me, if only they could find your heart, speak to the places where my words fail. My time is short, all things are that way between you and I. I cry h

I’ve been distracted lately. More busy than distracted, but the two relate. Quite simply I’m torn between what I should share and what is best kept inside. To be certain there are thoughts so morose that I’d never share them, out of consideration for anybody I care about enough to share with. I wonder if I’m doing anyone a favor in these instances, just like I hope there’ll be a time for these stories to tell themselves. For better or worse this is what life’s about. I acknowledge I’m in a coping stage of course, coming to grips with certain things, entertaining certain ideas, letting certain things go. Hemingway said what we win in Boston, we lose in Chicago. I relate that to people. Certain things end, and others begin. We lose old friends; we make new ones, or regain old ones. I had a brilliant conversation last night with my prodigal son, only he is a she, and a one-time love interest. Once we had dispensed with the how has your life been’s to rehash the last year or so we got to t