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Memories Ionian

He was comfortable in airports

Remarking how tedious 

the same landscape can be,

Even this beauty,

Can be tiring.

Gotta go gotta go.

Take the whirly magic that is you

with you.

Let your wheels hit the sky

In the classic noir

of bye bye

Bye Bye.

He is sipping somewhere,

Your image sunlit

and Ionian.

Its beauty breathless,

Can be overwhelming,

Gotta Go Gotta Go

The magic stays swirly with him,

The classic noir,

Plangent, laconic...

Bye bye 

Bye bye

Always bye bye.

This Time

That’s another story, timing the pace to match the waste of time.

She makes a box of remembered sounds catapulting across the room,

And stores them in measured rows of lines of time with tentacles reaching the floor.

It’s not the seemingly nonsense that drives her to beserk-dom, but the seemingly sense it all makes.

Take that, and that, she says and jousts her thoughts into the paper lid that forms the tray of her mind,

Pulling it out like drawers in the mortuary, the morgue, the home of the funeral director and associates,

Examining it like the rock collection of her youth, the butterfly cases of the PhD, the recipes snipped, clipped,

But that’s another story.

This story speaks of wasted time lounging on chairs and couches in front of phone and TV ions.

The dryer rocks the clothes dry, the washer beats it clean, knocking the detergent to the floor.

It needs to be balanced, that’s all, but how, how to balance, she’s not the tools.

The fridge ice frozen in the line, and the disposal as well, stopped in time, no action from either, all quiet.

She’ll do it later, get the guy who fixes things to come by and not fix it, but say next time.

And fixes something not broke, and charges her anyway, and cleans the gutters, but sweeps the yard instead.

It’s this nonsense that makes the most sense, padding around in hospital socks, non-slip to slip into his arms.

What do you think, a movie and dinner, or just the sex, you know the blood won’t flow to both.

And she hops on and hears her stomach growl, it’s a trade, he’ll do it next time, the movie she means.

The dinner ingredients dry up in the frozen fridge, and she muscles the dryer to clean the vent.

She’ll get the guy to come fix it, but he doesn’t do appliances, so he’ll fix something else that’s not broken,

And says I won’t charge you as much this time. I’ll bring the brush to clean out the dryer, so it can rock the clothes.

But that’s the story.  The other story of  her tender soft spots, making memories in boxes pulled out like drawers.

Her drawers on the floor as he rocks her like clothes in the dryer around and around, up and down, tumbled and dried.

Moist to the fingertips, her memories linger, scent upon scent, crouching to see why the fridge is frozen.

Under the peas and the tiny ice tray frozen in dinosaur shapes are piles of ice in bags awaiting the storm.

Take it all out, take it all to the counter and YouTube the answer to the quest, but end up couched crouching, 

Not seeing what the camera shows, so she’ll call the guy, and he’ll help her put the peas back and not charge at all,

This time.

Use-ta

I use-ta wake up and wonder 

if you were happy 

but now I don’t 

because you’re dead.  

I use-ta to wonder 

if I made you happy 

but now I don’t care,

Cuz you are dead. 

I use-ta not get anything done 

Cuz I saved all my spare time 

For you. 

You’d make fun of my

I-have-so-much to’s

but now I do have time, 

Cuz you're dead. 

I use-ta to wake up and wonder 

if you were happy 

but now I don’t

‘Cause you’re dead,

to me.