| “untitled, the journey”
“Come in.
Sit down.
Shut the door.”
i feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me.
brutally honest confrontation ensues.
inside my head i am reciting
the preamble, and
kierkegaard…
i break anyway.
exhausting, enlightening,
and if i can stop crying we’ll go to lunch.
kleenex is my friend.
(we went for chinese.)
“Pleasant”
pleasant pink pastel flowers with green happened to pass my way.
of no particular spectacular sort, just standing,
swaying, seemingly playing; praying.
perhaps of no consequence, but part of me plays with thought:
did yesterday's rains suddenly spring; bring new life?
today, today of all days has no reason nor rhyme,
no occasion or time for such festivities; felicities.
why today now notice pink, green?
i answer not but temporarily leave thought;
just breathe.
“so many racing thoughts”
part i.
driving to buddy's big band last night,
we passed a train and your face was on it.
the room so crowded, i don't know anyone.
i am standing there, awkward, anticipating.
look up and saw a kind face with blue eyes,
we were dancing, laughing, talking about home,
making fun of texans and projecting futures.
on the way home, mcdonalds and jeans in the car,
my head filled with you, him and a wilco song.
part ii.
take a deep breath,
my hands covering my eyes
i still picture you in darkness.
i want it to be precious when you look back
and see a nudge in the right direction
prompted by much love and deep hope.
i figured out the combination,
the door is swinging open wide.
waiting, i call to you with my eyes.
“I wish I was Superman”
There is yet something wanting at the door,
One look fades promises in sixty seconds,
And regret comes creeping just as quickly.
So let us have no more mere ‘good intentions.’
Time spent calling, confessing, realizing, wishing…
Emptiness never seemed so right, unnatural.
Tomorrow morning I’ll have coffee and waffles,
Reading the New York Times front page,
Looking for Superman’s latest rescues.
I spill the coffee over myself.
It’s time to stop looking for Superman,
He’s only a pseudonym for discipline.
“i never count sheep”
see your name in print; can't help
but (first thought: scream) cringe.
are you off where blood-shot eyes and
coloured sugar sit together and singe?
is that where you (next thought: him) pine
through trees for insipid definitions, binge
like you've been filled with flat soda and grin?
make snide remarks and (this thought: splinge?)
curse me for trying to make it rhyme.
why do i care so blasted much?
why do i stare so blasted long?
why can't i stop staring at you?
“recycled coffee thoughts”
we painstakingly fostered abundant felicity
while last year's valentines floated on streams of salty tears.
ache to hold, scan the horizon-
i am lost without direction or incentive to stay.
there must be something more-
i cannot see the fourth dimension.
the walls are chalked in artificial paste
always imagining [secrets told in booths]
quiet evenings murmuring scientific equations,
how do i translate loneliness to solitude?
why must we all grow up?
i don't know this face anymore.
words pinned speak, "you are not so fearless."
recycled witty phrases once bordered on originality.
deep inside [you] cannot express.
deep seated wide-eyed saturated in thought on
perfect circles impossible for mortals without craft.
in the ethereal hesitations are lost
i gently place my head near your chest desperate to listen,
fingers lining the seams favourite faded jeans.
keenly aware you extrapolate rhythmic breathing,
downward building cacophony explodes catapulting thoughts.
cradled hope balances aesthetics and desire without abandon
scents of energy topples, fatigued like glass still awaiting
textured expressions subtracting fade,
tens of thousands revolting pleas hoping,
"o great god grant her peace"
(and don't you feel like you're the martyr?)
in crucible times someone still likes you
i want to leave; why don't you let me go?
“Bittersweet”
Don't you know you can't make me cry?
The heart hurts, emotions run high
When you sit so near to me
Don't you know I'm not empty like you?
So these months drag on, run amuck
It keeps getting better, worse
Don't you know I know better?
Sharing with a stranger is so lonely
Not as deafening as sitting by oneself
Don't you know I left for a reason?
Still emotional, stepping ahead
I will redefine this metanarrative
Don't you know?
“The reflection”
the reflection grows dimmer around and inside me
thoughts we call feelings emerge to taunt, tease,
try to lead to downward spiral .
tired of the criminal that keeps escaping to visit my door.
lie down and go to sleep.
“in the morning it will be better,” she says.
too young, not enough perspective.
rash decisions don’t lead to who you want to be.
someday a detective will catch him.
the visits will cease and i,
i will wake up the next morning,
five years later, ten, the rest of my life.
©2001-2005 Teresa Pecinovsky
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