Old Friends

Righting Wrongs

you're a hundred unfinished poems taking up space under my bed 


you're a million pictured memories collecting dust inside my head

you're the voice I hear singing in the dead still of the night

when everything is wrong, you're the only thing that's right. 

Old Projector

Beneath the pinkened dome of me,
there sat an old projector.
For many days it was unused,
and those days soon became weeks.
From time to time its reels would spin,
only to run dry of film;
leaving it a relic that
had little in the way of purpose.
Then there came a recent night
where flickers came and whisked away
my conscious and unconscious mind,
revealing images of you.
The cradled box had gotten hold
of strands of hair from 'top your head
and fed them through each cylinder.
I reveled in your fairish glow.

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In these conversational forests where within we've dwelt,
I have the vaguest sense that you consider yourself a
canvas void eternally of sufficient noise and sparkle
with which you may tarry each and every sultry glance.
Atop these many pillars of occasioned dialogue,
I find my ears grow bored and sleep just beyond the start,
leaving sight the only sense you've left me here to compensate.
I drink you in without feign of care or motive to be subtle.
Somehow after ravages you still produce the raw
needy, clawing side of me that serves as mankind's foil,
and leave me desperate for release amidst a now distorted
sense of past and future-tense that doesn't mean a God damn thing.
And oh the things I'd to you, in my home or in yours.
We rarely speak of bygone things, because you were so different.
But same or not your appeal remains something still and primal;
despite the passing of the days, I may remind you of why then
you had such sudden urges met with nothing but a photo
which you kept beneath your bed in the shell of layered boxes.
I'd heard about it through a friend and found myself quite shocked
and angry that I did not act when it could have been so simple.
Now you are intoxicants met only with a vision,
liquor for my hungry eyes and set about in grace.
I'll watch you twirl your bags of rice and imagine your low-bending,
but there's likely little left to say, unless you've seen my changing.

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