Before my eyes

cut liquid flame,

the cracked, unsteady knife

of gods now drunk

on human lust,

yon fleeing from this life.

If you can sit in silence

as distant footfalls

climb crooked stairs

and leave their feet

to tread old paths,

as sunlight warms

the frigid hall

and melts the frost

from aching bones,

as a slight draught

creaks an open door

and an hour passes

in the space of a breath,

you may find

that I envy you,

for my hour passed

in the space of two.

Here in the silence

an impetuous mess,

A jumble of thoughts

And firework mines,

where misplaced steps

come roman candles

Or unshaded blows

crushing ears and hearts.

I had a teacher once

who got choked up

reading us a chapter

from her favorite book.

We all looked around,

Waiting,

Not sure what to do

Not sure what to say,

As if that age old

“Talk amongst yourselves”

ever inspired anyone to speak.

There was a wolf in some snow,

And then it got shot,

and that’s where she stopped.

And we were sitting,

Thumb-twiddling,

Expected to look away,

As if she couldn’t bear to feel

To admit

that she felt something,

Anything,

For a wolf that wasn’t real.

But who says what’s real?

You remember them, don’t you?

Those moments,

pure and intense,

From your favorite film,

Lyrics and quotes,

impassioned and compelling

And ever so appropriate,

running in your head for days.

We know logically that

“it’s not real,”

thank our lucky stars that

it’s not us,

yet there it is.

The anguish,

The fury,

The untenable yearning

Of those we might

Learn to know

As we know ourselves.

It knocks and calls out and

Looks the wrong way

Through the peephole.

It insists-

It pounds and hollers

Until it’s ringing in your dreams.

Then the door goes,

Because you kind of forgot

To fasten the lock-

And it’s got you,

Taking as its own what was yours,

Only yours,

Sacred ground in the heart of You.

Now that false,

“it’s not real” story

is breathing,

using your lungs,

settling in for the long haul.

And what shall we say then?

“There is a thing in me,

and it understands

and explains

and is who I am,

don’t you see?”

No, because they won’t.

And one day

You’re walking in the street,

and some words over coffee

make you think of a scene-

And the images burn behind your eyes

And the words fly apart in your head,

And you turn to look

And your lungs are full of snow

And a shot’s ringing in your ears

And a crying wolf slips away in the crowd,

As if it couldn’t bear to feel

To admit

that it felt something,

Anything,

For someone that wasn’t real.

The movie is over

and I would like

to show you something.

Emotions laid out,

shaped and hued by words,

perhaps my own, but then,

if not mine, whose,

and I wish my heart was real,

a thing for the seeing,

understood, not admired

or loved,

but acknowledged,

and would you see me then,

exposed,

logically flawed

in an unbound tempest

of sentimental drudge.

And here is my pen, stabbing,

trying to find a vein

so you can see

what is in me,

but there is nothing.

It flees

or fails

or simply isn’t real.

Oh, had I

so easily forgotten

my heart

is not a thing.

It is a hole

and I live in it

and someday,

maybe,

I’ll find a way

to show you.

Why are you looking at me like that?

Don’t act like you see me.

Don’t try to acknowledge my existence.

This is the metro.

Look, don’t get all serious, okay?

It’s just some girl being harassed.

Come on, admit it, it’s a little funny, right?

This is the metro!

Oh, I get it. You think you’re better than us.

You’d best shape up, buddy.

This is the metro.

And in the metro, you leave decency at the door.

I know of a house,

full of splendid, cluttered rooms,

hard to find rooms,

rooms that move and shuffle

to welcome new rooms,

say goodbye to the old.

 Draughts unclose doors,

slam them back too-quick.

The doorbell rings, and

I’m on my way to answer

the library, so I’ll

have a quick read, mayhap,

or a nibble in the

ringing doorbell.

But who is it?

These bannisters,

mahogany?

are dirty, and

I should clean the

goddamn doorbell!

Leave me be!

I finally found that old

hungry for some lunch.

And I’m tired,

tired of open doors.

It’s time to do some closing, but

I’ve lost the keys.

The train doors open and

her guts spill out,

and the river grows, and

the river flows, down

into the station, up

onto the streets,

into the sea of us.

The train doors open and

The they all crush in, scrabbling

after that minute space

between comfort and misery,

to settle and ride that dead beast

down,

down

into the fetid earth.

Have you ever seen a whistle willow,

Or danced wild on the triplekill?

I hear tell of a swarthy barge,

who sails west in a lovely swill.

Where is the end.