AugustDitties

The streetlight held the door open for me;

he knew I needed this tonight- to believe in the

grace of something figurative 

like a gentleman with a light.

I suck in this stale cigarette and star-stained air and 

I take his hand, though I know better.

I'm really alone, here. 

We're racing the night,

into the depths of something unseen. 

I'm not doing this because I believe, 

I'm doing it to find something to believe in. 

__________

It's below my surface because it sunk, not because it's rooted. 

__________

Tired and creased,

I'm crinkled rice paper in an old Bible

with no religion, no scripture or praise

along the incision of the page

I sit in the blankness between no lines.

_________

There's so much poetry I want to write 

in the late hours of the night 

that I forget come morning time 

so I sleep in (always)- 

to preserve the limbo state 

between feeling moved by something 

and moving something. 

I want to wake up in this- 

not shake it awake every day. 

I'm crazed, living in this paranoid place

where everything that rivets is so far away

and everything close is too delicate to touch 

because I've melted it down so many times

that it's brittle in my clumsy, child's hands.