Writer's block

Writer’s block is
that crook in your neck you get
when staring at a clock with no second hand
watching something invisible
grind away at the meaning of your life
when you’ve got so much to do
and don’t know where to start
and your eyes keep telling your mind
it’s an albino

©09.07.2018 ebn

Love is like

Love is like
spitting up a mouthful of something to drink
behind a joke so bad it kills you
spilling it all over your last clean shirt
just before that one job interview
you have everything riding on
and telling yourself
it’s not about the shirt

©09.07.2018 ebn

Night night

“Night night, peanut butter,”
dove off my chipped tooth
and sailed through the space between us
in blind faith, like a skydiver on jump “I’ve lost count”,
already at home in your ear

While I started my climb up the stairs
to where dreams awaited me,
as long as I didn’t try too hard to find them,
shrugging off the heavy arms of day’s business
already too tired to hold on

Slipping free
I landed in a billowing cloud of sheets,
pressing my weight into the bed
like an impatient dog, nudging a sleeping hand,
and fell down from my mind,
splattering like a jug of milk
dropped from somebody’s balcony
into the deepest cracks of my consciousness.

©09.05.2018 ebn

I don’t know what love was

I don’t know what love was.
The kind used to want with.
Different from that natural breath
that makes something in you smile;
like the color of sunrise
or the kiss of a breeze,
or when the words “good morning” arrive,
sung calmly in the strum of your father’s voice,
or the coo of your mother’s.

But you have made it more complicated
than a simple answer;
requiring too much thought, patience, sacrifice
and understanding of rules written in a language
not mine;
which tire the mind,
and give up enthusiasm for resignation…

Because you convinced me that
we believed in the same thing -
a magic trick that stole my identity
every time I had to question
what was natural for me
and so foreign to you.

… convinced me to
extinguish the match meant to
burn my cross of unrequited love
and appreciate the noble nature
of self-sacrifice

which I did

and found myself climbing over mountains
I was never interested in climbing,
not because I enjoyed it,
but because I had tied myself to you;
and you liked climbing for the hell of it.

Love became more jagged,
like a puzzle of sharp rocks I had to scale
to reach pinnacles that ended up being precipices -
crosses to bear
that wore me down and out
with failed anticipations, senseless contentions,
and wearisome trials of overreaching and disappointment.

My eyes tired.
My words stammered, trying
where they never had to try before,
never had to articulate a need I was only allowed to fill
in you.
A need which had me standing in a very long line
with the wrong receipt
waiting to claim something
that wasn’t there.

Love became an ungrateful and hungry annoyance,
constantly begging for food;
trying at times, in the stupidity of loyalty,
to be satisfied with the crumbs that
never stopped the heart from growling.

Love became a student with attention deficit disorder,
unable to focus on the drone of your excuses,
distracted by all the butterflies
reminding me of how much fun I had
chasing them in the fields;
reminding me of how the sun died
when I caught one and pinned it down
to study its beauty to death.

I became confused;
unable to identify my natural appetites;
unable to discern my wants from my needs,
my heart from my stomach,
or selfishness from self-interest.

I suffered a craving that
made every woman a morsel to mentally savor
and then move on to the next
minds unmet
and so unable to connect with any sense of intimacy.

Love became a hollow fantasy,
devoid of relationship,
an illicit drug, like expired dynamite,
banned from fishing,
my line tangled up with you
and useless,
leaving me hungry, if not starving.

My mind turned in on itself -
sick, pitiful and lonely,
like a homeless person
laying half naked on the floor of the subway tunnels
walked passed and overlooked by thousands
every day.
“Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink…”

I say you made love into this for me,
but it is not your fault.
I did this to myself
when I bought into something I didn’t understand,
and didn’t have the sense enough to throw it away,
because I had paid so much for it.

©09.02.2018 ebn