JACKSON

March 1, 2016
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Friday night ritual, my flesh writhes
damp is my hair
though dry and lifeless
I notice how hard it is,
to loosen the knots
am I referring to my hair or heart?
With a fixed gaze, watching water
smashing on the shower door
slowly, stroking limbs that feel detached
turning my face into the head
wishing I could spit in public, focus
I blow bubbles–nonsense.
Wash away yesterday’s painting
prepare the canvas for tonight
if only I could stretch it–
the canvas, not this evening.
For I know what is to be
another perfectly arranged gathering
where smiles are forced
and dressing is obvious–
how I detest both!
Yet I dare not speak my mind
certainly, I cannot decline
so I dry my skin
select black clothes, smoke my eyes–
a screaming disguise.
Bitter is the cold
put on a jacket
fashion is less of a priority
I am older now, indeed.
Bitter is my tongue
put on a smile
class is more of a priority
I am older now, clearly.
Sidewalk clicks, smoking only a breath cigarette
feeling bass bump the street
enter to the players
smell sweat, hear the beat.
And in this night
where I was asked to be
miles are measured unwittingly
–the distance between us.
Inches from your efforts
validate my shower disdain
eyes dart, watching our strain
laugh, then swig it away.
Damn the pitiful tears welling
my heart silently implodes
mirroring my love for you–
saturating the undeserving.

– jd

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