Tag Archives: memory

No Title

I want to keep these flashes snug,
protected in the blanket
of the warm August nights
from whence they emerged.

Windows down, Rick Astley blaring,
you demanding that I listen, listen to
THAT VOICE,
my God. Majestic.
Bigger than the man,
bigger than this whole summer.

Has it been six years since I heard from you?
I stopped trying to glean meaning
from those final messages long ago,
maybe the Year of Our Lord 2009,
around the time I curled into a ball
on the living room floor, making
the most unholy noises,
grieving my own projected losses.
None of them came to fruition.
In case you were wondering.

Where are you, I wonder,
other than right here
in this corner of my limbic attic,
firing away at random,
bringing you to me in the middle of Panera Bread.

Where are you, really, other than in my memories?

I’m dealing so much with memory now, Keith.
It’s all I can think about.
There are proteins which can destroy them, memories.
Proteins banding together to make you forget all of the things that made you.
I pray nightly to Something Out There that they won’t get mine.
To lose you again, and not even realize it.
Come back. Stay.

Multiple Drafts

say, in this scene, you’ve caught something

you missed the first eight times

you’ve played it. there’s something

carved into the bench at

Sullivan Square Station

as you’re sitting there, sobbing

(were you sobbing? or just sitting there, stunned, because it happened even though you knew it would happen, stunned because he didn’t run after you. stupefied?)

and shivering

(was it january?)

and whatever it is, it’s angular, jagged,
inflicted on the bench with something
not quite sharp enough.
it’s deep in there, but not so deep that time and climate
won’t rub it away. what does it say? that’s for the next viewing.

What Now

I’ve got that heavy knot in my gut

telling me I fucked up, I know it,

everyone knows it, but

I don’t know what I did.

I can’t remember. All I have

is that feeling, something trying

to crawl up from my intestines

and hang from my vocal cords,

choking back a mystery apology.

 

You’re so good at telling me

everything I’ve done wrong.

Tell me now. Tell me

so I can go nine rounds with myself,

get my slacker ass on the ropes

and go for the KO, slam this

imperfection from my system.

 

Tell me so I’m not forced to

waterboard my memory

for false confessions and

agonizing half-thoughts

sputtered out between

cracked lips and

another vodka-rocks.

 

Shuffle my neurons and

find some plausible lie

to explain this writhing,

heavy-as-a-dying-star

sickness in my stomach.

I’m sure you’ll be right.

 

Cities of the Dead

I can’t bring myself to bag it
and push it to the back of the vault.
There are fresher deaths
to be interred,
but this is the one I want to keep
hauling out, the one that
won’t stay buried.

Shit For Brains

She drops memories like tiny
shits behind her where she
walks, a trail of small,
hard excess condensed into
pellets and buried beneath
her bedding at dusk. And
when she wakes, aroused
by tunes, or the crinkled
sound of sunburnt prunes,
the rest of her remembers
in its actions — thumbless
hands supporting chins,
the precious cuddling of
dust upon her pelt, the
endless fights for sustenance
against her sibling rival.
But still there’s something
missing in her muscles
when she sleeps, the only
thing remembering the warmth
her mind won’t keep.