Poetry

Creature of Habit Despite Wanting to say, "Yes" I was foraging once too. Self Portrait of an Artist with a Shotgun

Creature of Habit

            Milky fog 
            spreading smoky tendrils 
            reaching out 
            and clouding brown liquid. 
		   
            <diffusion>

morning coffee- 
leading to a day of perfection,
                          routine
                          routine
                          routine
                                       three creams & four sugars- 
                                       like a creamy milkshake- 
                                       warm and soothing-
 
I feel my thoughts percolate, 
gazing into the depths of my daily fix,
              my mind chaotic, with dreams and reality tumbling, 
                                       from the day and night before.
 
My day must start the same everyday,
from when I roll out of bed, 
             to when I sit down (and

             <first sip>

moves from the inside out).

              Nothing complete without it. 

I was foraging once too.

It's dark out.
A table groans as it ages in the house.
Flowers traipse in the breeze.
Geraniums dance on its top.

A left behind camera, 
                        captor of light, 
                                    imprisoner of smiles,
                                    sits unobtrusively,
                                                 dusty, 
             next to fresh cut companions. 

You're in there too.
Keeping me company in undeveloped memories,
                                                 full of false smiles. 
But you've gone now.
Leaving your possessions scattered through my life.

And my thoughts bubble and burst behind large sunglasses revealing that-

I've found an ache from where you used to be;
an empty hole at the middle of me.  

Despite Wanting to say, "Yes"

The radio drones like mosquitoes stuck inside your sleeping bag.
The dashboard lights a mirage as  
warm night ink time blackness bathes my taste buds.
The bucket seat presses hard into my ass.
Fear fills my nostrils.

Your voice sounds like salty tears on my tongue,
you modern siren, 
unable to see the ship I'm tied too.  
I, Graziano, escaped you,
unfortunate knowledge keeping me safe from you,
at the Durham Buffalo Farm, where we saw Elvis.
He started to sing, "In the Still of the Night." 
It was all wrong,
so I said, "No," despite wanting to say, "Yes,"
and felt the anger in your eyes stand my hair on end,
static electricity from old birthday balloons.

It's all just mumbo jumbo of what could have been.
Vibrant raindrops of eternity hanging precipitously in spider webs, 
uninhibited, open casket rejoicing 
getting stuck on the scratch and sniff stickers on the top of the paper 
not noticing the Red Letters in the sky,
como se dice, I'm sorry? 

Next year, driving down this same old road, chasing ghosts in the headlights,
the stars won't shine as bright, not 
until the moon glows purple in my electric blue memories,   
and the clouds bow out graciously.
The sound of buffaloes chewing placidly on their cud
lingers, soothing me. 

Self Portrait of an Artist with a Shotgun
subtitle: Inspiration has a tendsency to blow your mind.

when I look into the mirror,
I have to peer    deep, 
                        deep, 
                        deep, 
to try and-                    see,
myself. 

messy hair,       doubt
that I am doing it right

green eyes
clear vision,        maybe
into myself,        at least
into you too? 
pride,            I'll meet
your questioning glance

a shadow of grandfather's chin. 

broad shoulders
to comfort and yolk 
with love's burdens

a tempered, tested, drive to
be better, 
                      succeed. 

a furrowed brow, thoughts turn over and around, 
trying to-          make sense
trying 
             to--