Tug of Piece

Don’t mistake ambivalence for neutrality
As if the pencil balanced on and by your shifting fingertip were a steady base
As if love with hate made calm indifference
As if tug of war could be called a state of peace
As long as no side wins

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The Awkward Moment When (Month 4)

You’re homesick
but you’re not sure where for

And you decide you want to be a normal person
almost as much as you really don’t

When you’ve forgot what you’re running to
and start wondering what you’re running away from

and what if you sat back and let it catch you this time?

*Just For Attention*

Usually I couldn’t stand attention
At least not from the people who gave it
But something the way you were
Made me start to crave it

So I pulled up a stool for a friendly chat
Making small-talk to pass the time
Like what kind of faces do you like your face on
And do they look much like mine?

You declared innocence like the default was guilt
As if that could ease our tension
But I thought once I faced you up front and center
You might choose to pay back my attention

I said guess I’m not such an attention prude
When I’m wrapped around you like this
Course it’s all for show (though I’m starting to think
I might be a method actress)

What a funny kind of play where I wear
My own face as a mask to pretend
That it wasn’t quite me that was touched
And I could pull it off in the end

But I tuned out the tunes and the boys making noise
Tried not to grant them a mention
Tried to shut out the guy in the side of your eye
So I could keep all your attention

Exposure

Cheap strippers might bare it all for a few bucks,
but we’re artists here–
we’ll do it for the mere exposure.

When empty hands talk
up their “great exposure”
they knock our covers off
and bring us to their feet,
because we know they know we think
to be more seen must be a good thing.

So turn up the exposure:
show your soul and your skin and any dark place in between–
you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t desperate be seen.

Shed another layer, shed another light, shed another tear or more,
until you’re washed out in bright lights
from overexposure.

A poem about when the N train is stopped and R rolls in across the platform (and other stuff)

When you’re stuck at the station
struggling to be patient
with the endlessly-stalling
train which is calling
itself “express,”
is it time to guess
that you’ll cover more ground
with one that’s forward-bound
at any rate?
Or better to wait?

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Kill Time.

I’m just here to kill time, I say,
So just kill time with me.
Help me strangle it before it strangles us.
We need to stop its ticking pulse,
So we can play off the beat.

There were futures, but I said kill time with me now.
We’ll twist up its forward and back.
It won’t be easy, but when we’ve made it,
We’ll feel its grip grow limp, its gaze grow vacant,
Its march stumble to stop in the path.

I wanna kill time with you,
And bury it deep in the sand.
They might dig up the fossils one day, I guess,
And think up who did it, they’ll know, more or less,
But we’ve got timeless space ’til then.

So why not murder time together?