if i try to tell you i have given up, it only proves i haven’t.
if i had really given up i wouldn’t be writing you, i wouldn’t
say anything, i would be gone.
if i tell you i am leaving it is only proof i haven’t left.
it is obviously an attempt to get a response, an attempt to
get you to tell me you want me to stay. but i hear nothing,
and i still don’t leave, and that is when i begin to feel frightened,
vulnerable, no longer in control of my own thoughts or
feelings or actions, and that is when i begin to unravel
like a cloud on a sunny day.
flowers knocking on the door
dragging me out to the street
down to the corner to the
coffee shop and then stopping.
what? I asked them. what?
I was still in my pajamas.
I didn’t even have shoes on,
just socks, (that were all soggy
because it rained the night before).
what is this all about? I asked.
the flowers just stared at me,
silent, emitting a pleasant fragrance.
I didn’t even know what kind
of flowers they were… I’d think
they were daffodils, then look away,
then look back and they’d be
roses, or tulips, or orchids…
on and on.
they were flowers. mainly. flowers.
and they had knocked on my door
and dragged me down the street to
the coffee shop and then stopped.
I figured there must be a reason for them
to go to all this trouble. I stood there,
in my pajamas and my soggy socks and
ever-changing bouquet of flowers,
scratching my head. Finally, I lit
a cigarette. and the flowers kept staring
at me. and then, five minutes later,
I walked back home and put them in
a venetian vase.
I invited my Shadow over for tea–-
it showed up late
and said it preferred whiskey.
I opened my closet and let the skeletons out––
they were happy to have the tea––
although some of them preferred the whiskey,
and quite a few of them wanted to smoke.