Screwing with my hypothalamus
Stimulating brain synapses
With your hands up on my hips and
Nerves on surfaces of skin
No not even on skin
Two layers of fabric
All while my heart is palpitating
Body patiently waiting
Mind not patiently debating
Just impatiently pacing
Pursued psychology patient
Insued emotionally latent
These uncontrollable cravings
Have my mouth salivating
Nothing like a good book and a comfy café. Boy, do I miss NY. On to the next one…
My friends are so talented, and I just loved playing subject.
Lying up in bed with a bag of gold fish,
right before sleep and I’ll be dreaming of death
with a shortness of breath I’ll be sleeping with the fishes.
I forgot to do the dishes
and live more like a minimalist
so naturally I won’t sleep very well tonight,
regardless of sheets tucked in coffin tight,
regardless of camomile rituals by bed light.
The white noise
on my white phone
can wipe out
the depth of
my functional brain waves like brain wash,
the night watch turning brains into porridge
or oatmeal or hot cereal or cream of wheat,
but I’d take the nothingness over nightmares most nights.
Sometimes I like the challenge
in spite of the nature of the torture,
the hare beats the tortoise,
and I’d like control of my thoughts,
Maybe dreaming is like sneezing
that fluctuates with breathing
and seasonal colds
and pet allergies,
pass me that aprodine please,
to regulate nasal spasms,
tensing muscles, sporadic flailing reactions,
without those drowsy side effects.
NyQuil doesn’t parallel
and battle the irrational blood spill
in my dreams,
irrigating imaginary soil, all the hatred conceived.
*still working on the punctuation.
The days are seductive.
My body reacts.
Give in to the hours.
We move to the only truth.
But skin lies,
Belief in that “truth” is foolish.
Hidden passion lies,
Exposing hungry eyes.
Get our fix
Silence, goes our thoughts,
And the measurement stops,
Moved by the pounding of our synced body parts.
The water surrounds me… almost. No need to panic… yet.
There is a candle in a small cup propped in the corner. The warmth of the bath is transfixing. I turn over to lie on my stomach. My skin is aware of the tiny bubbles who simply didn’t have the ambition to expand or procreate. I am aware of my toes, wet but not submerged. I am aware of my knees, bent and pressing on the bottom of the tub. I am aware of my belly, hanging a little lower than I would like. All as I prop myself on my elbows to face the water.
I push my chin down first, gently touching the lower half of my face underwater. Big breath, then descend. Its as if I’m two different people, on the opposite ends of life. I am still myself. I am so many people. I feel myself, my face, right in front of me. One minute, I am as I am now, on February 20th, 2013. The next… I feel the age, I feel my own face at seventy, maybe eighty years old. I swear it, I can feel the wrinkles; the folds in my eyelids, the extra skin around my neck, the room in my cheeks; all so soft.
Scared and aware all at once, I emerge. I am gasping for air, body heaving. I just need to breathe right now. Turning back over and sinking lower into the bath, I see the water escape down the mouth of the drain. I feel my skin cells shed as the seconds go by. I take the cup, the candle, and I take a sip.
There’s something so awesome about having a local coffee shop. Especially one that makes “Good Morning” muffins with carrot cake, nuts and raisins.
Perhaps I can only fall in love now.
Perhaps I’m still in love with everyone I’ve loved, since the moment I fell.
Perhaps that love will never leave, and I shall keep it in my heart forever.
Is there a capacity, a limit, of love?
Do I offer the current less because I honor the past?