THE PIGEON LISTENED

November 25, 2015
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“The space between me and everything else, is called poetry. ”
~JD


  THE PIGEON LISTENED

Don’t look at me shivering–
I don’t want your coat or company
desperation leaves you breathlessly clinging,
withdrawn, I hear the snowflakes singing.

Cause I’m running, in stained white tennis shoes
the ones he gave me eight years ago, on Christmas Day
we exchanged gifts, laughs, and swore we’d sex forever
long before I lost, the girl I said I’d never.

Give me confused eyes, or chuckle in contempt
victimize again, bewildered and bent
nauseating, but not the sickness I crave
staring, you’re either stupid or brave.

I’ll drink, while you talk to pigeons
the drained bottle of red, rarely listens
walking, I roll my eyes–you challenge, scream, and follow
your life is half over, don’t you find that hard to swallow?

I’ll never set the thermostat at seventy–forty or ninety
extremes create chance, experience is momentary
naked I’ll dance, while the snow blows in on the breeze
a claw foot tub and glass of iced juniper trees.

Did you know I reject food, just to feel that emptiness?
or that I cut, to bleed out my pain in carelessness?
breaking hearts- it’s what feeds my love addiction
shamefully weeping tears of lust, in a hidden rose garden.

You pried, and the pigeon listened mountainside
It’s uncomfortable isn’t it? To know it’s me, to whom I’ve lied
begging me to be me, now we are both paying attention
holidays, family, oh drag me to redemption!

Did you know I threw out my backpack?
I scattered granola all over Central Park–squirrels danced
what did I do next? I packed my truth and cigarettes
both are real and relentless–whispering crickets.

You be raw, or leave me for the taking!
Whiskey pouring, Waits swaying, head on your shoulder, Sartre contemplating
Remember? We couldn’t get enough of each other’s way
skin on skin whispering, as you called in your “sick day.”

Still confused? The last few years have been a blur?
heart pressing through my ripped flesh, bleeding for what we were
screaming, no, cause there’s no use in crying
waking, no, self-medicating while we’re actively dying.

I want to slap your pretty face into yesteryear
give me your filth; I won’t be sanitized by fear
messy hair, unshaven, jeans, and dirty speak
running through Greenwich Village, playing hide n’ seek.

Smashing is my smile, laughing– I look back to see
there you are, falling on cobblestone and in love with me
I’ll take some more tequila, and another salty kiss
starry eyed and slurring, I quote the lyrics you tend to miss.

“This is our last song,” my pout gets your attention and another dollar
anything it takes, to make our moments last longer
catch me when I stumble, push me up the stairs and against the wall
kiss me till they turn their heads in disgust, as we laugh down the hall.

In the thieving glare of morning, kiss me heavily
lay back on the scented sheets, inhaling our ecstasy
I’ll pretend not to see you- you’re watching me dress
the room smells like coffee, sex, and your eyes, they caress.

But Instead I’m crying, staining white tennis shoes
the ones you gave me eight years ago, on Christmas Day
we made love, life, and promises of forever
long before I accepted, all I said I’d never.


~JD

11/25/15

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