Use me as a Motif

Listening to subscribed channels about loving myself

is probably more harmful than actually loving.

You can abandon people and they are still in the dark

even if I research the best methods of unloving someone

it can’t be done. Rooms wait for people to walk into

and as long as I wait for you, you can’t come in

to see me.  It’s fine.  I prefer it that way.  Death beds

are such beautiful places to end up in. Heaven

is a place you described once, while I wasn’t

in the room. I can see you there talking to her

and pretending I don’t exist. It’s fine. It’s not fine.

I’m absent from this part of the story.

You can use me up until I say no more. It’s coming.

That day you dread.  Death sucks up love at will.

You can go about your silence. It has no guilt.

Over wine

So here we all are,

discussing art, poetry and the modern poets.

Here we are, with our quirks

our tattoos, our playlists

our countries of origin.

I’m one hundred percent Greek,

my friend is Mexican, Australian,

American, Indian, Albanian,

Portuguese,

a mini-multicultural microcosm

of poets. We share the best lines

over morning coffee, exchange smiles

over lunch and family pictures over supper.

In another life we were at the courts

with a glass of wine and time on our hands,

quill and ink, ideologies and war,

we had each other close.

Now technology draws us so close

we can almost smell each other’s

perfume. We can almost feel

each other’s pain. We can create  a

movement, change CEO’s reports,

shock them with a poetic force.

We are turning the hands

of time forward,

over wine.

And still art

doesn’t sell,

and poets do not make money

let us work our two jobs,

go back to school,

raise a family,

write at midnight,

check our status updates.

Here we are.

Ready for the darts

and critics.

Here we are

at your disposal

for abuse,

but at least

we have each other’s back

from oceans and miles away.

The poet’s circle

revives

itself.

poems

have some poems in my pocket

under my skirt

between my legs

along the highway to the city

writing them in my head

in my bed

everywhere but here,

i’ll come back sooner or later

but they take control now

and my notebooks aren’t empty enough

and my love is not as full as i want it

so i drown it

add some ice to it

and shake the shaker with

instant cosmos on the table.

i’m the best suburban downtown barmaid

around,

my heart never ages

you look like sisters and other lies

i hear.

oh, come on, you know the drill

the thrill

you can find it anywhere else

but here.

poems set me aflame now

let reality burn down

to the ground

i won’t call 911.

i’d rather be a ghost.

I see nothing but love

and even that covers itself up

and hides from this painting.

leave my blindfolds on

i like it that way.

Muddy Boots

The damp earth moulded you,

two souls side by side like produce

in an aisle,

roasting Easter lamb above our heads.

There they are, she says.

It is when the coffin settles, the sculpted wood

evaporates,

the mud dries on our boots,

the alarm clock rings,

then life grabs you.

Shakes you.

Nothing stands still but the tulips

on my table. Days and hours

mingle like strangers at a party,

a place you get lost in. Moments

when nothing is relevant anymore.

It hits you again, slaps you, whispers in your ear:

you’ll never laugh again the same way as you 

did with him 

the joke seems stale now. Dry on your lips.

heavy on your heart. But you say it

you continue to say it. Believe in it.

No crowd roaring as the list

of the dead keeps growing

like our needs.

Still how your beauty wakes me

turns my pain into poetry

my Good Friday into symmetry.

I will always write

do not worry your beautiful mind

about me. I am as you say

messed up,

drinking Metaxa with too much glee

creating words you will never see.

just another poem about death

hashtag death, make it concrete,

or damp like the earth

or kill the spirit

with the typewriter

but oh, how the clicking sound

lifts my soul

closer to yours.

I wiped my boots

clean again,

ready to write poems.

Across the Street

It is funny how you wake up from a dream

when you do not want to

and that fucking alarm

has the worst timing.

Look Aysha said, he’s across

the street. I squinted, I let

the rain wet my hair. He has 

a message for you. But he’s dead.

No he isn’t. He’s right there.

Then I saw him. He stared at me

with his familiar clothes and

cute cap and his unforgettable look.

I waited for his thoughts to enter mine

like in that stupid move, In Your Eyes,

but nothing. Now I have to guess,

ponder all day what he meant

to say. His constant beyond the grave

obscure meanings, quotes,

sayings, life affirming opera

selections.

I have so many estimations

but all lead to the bridge

I almost crashed into

last night in the snowstorm.

I got nothing.

I see everything.

He did not want to cross

so that tells me

what my heart

knows to be true.

Do you ever see the dead

and wonder why you?

Do you ever light the candles

and watch them flicker?

Do you ever question

artistry and love?

It’s only my right breast

that needs

love

the rest of me

is doing just fine

with snow tires

and edits

poetic lyrics

to get me by

but when you told me

about your mom

my insides were ripped apart

for your pain.

I feel the heartache

and shock

I end up reliving mine

and even if you are

tired of reading me

I will never stop.