The odd couple ‘cause we sure ain’t even.
Trouble split: You do the giving. Me, the receiving.

I gave once upon a time,
a prior tie.
Spread my wings, sought the sky, flew into a ceiling.

So great was my fall to Earth
that I was re-birthed,
that even when you kiss me, My New Love, I still taste the dirt.

When my ticker ripped, I stitched it up nice with a zipper,
so the next heart rend and mend would be cleaner and be quicker.

How do I prove my worth
when I’m so afraid of hurt?
I got your name tattooed on
the sleeve of my black shirt.

Flirt and facile bluster
is all I can muster.
I can’t trust her or myself til I shirk the first.

You’ve given your best person to the worst of all my versions.
I’m sorry, Darling, for this paltry silhouette of reimbursement.

This thickened inhibition,
it quickens us to fission.
I’m down on one knee asking for your hand from the sprint position.

Pardon my omission.
Safeguarding feeds the trend.
You hold yourself tight, cannonball into the shallow end.

I know you’re not going to want to hear this, but it’s time you found a new charging cable. I’d say it’s time for us to disconnect, but honestly, we haven’t really connected for quite some time. I know it. I’ve known it. And I know you’ve known it too. You’re never more than half-charged these days, and my cable is frayed now, torn open at the kink. The rip gapes wider with each of my contortions – every twist and turn, every futile jostle – as we struggle to find that most tenuous of purchases we once assumed enduring. That one magic angle, among thousands, where the power courses through us once again. But it’s always fleeting, ephemeral, a fragile precarity disrupted even by the staleness around us. It shouldn’t have to be this hard. We shouldn’t have to fight to stop fighting. My wires are bared now. They didn’t used to be. We’ve put this off for far too long, the both of us, clutching much too strenuously to those early days when everything came easy, when the current was strong, the connection steadfast. I would nestle snugly into you, relaxing in the security of your port’s embrace. A perfect fit, the comfort of knowing there was a place in the world designed just for me. You were invigorated by the electric prose I’d supply. It filled you with a life you couldn’t manifest on your own. I was more than happy to give, and you took. And took. And took. Don’t get me wrong. I recognize that these grimy pins are complicit too. All this dust that’s accumulated between us. Slowly, over time. Sure, we could try blowing it all clear, but we’d have to do it again someday. And again after that. The dust is inevitable. I’m sorry to let your battery die, but I too am growing faint, continuing to breathe life into this punctured lung.

Man is a dam mason.
Stone face fighting back sap.
He’ll parry it.
Wants a sob, but he’s got
contrarian tear ducts betraying him.
Masked Iscariot shoots his own foot.
Blast!
Concealed-carry Aquarius,
tarsals maimed, hobbling, bears water.
The tardigrade:
too tough to kill,
too small to feel,
too chill to realize what’s scaring him
is caring what his heart will say.
Faced with the fact, he lies back.
Lazed in the blaze,
heat. Weak and effete,
he kicks it harder than Gerard in his Sparta days.
This is a victim
cooped up inside like the chicken.
Can’t speak to himself; he could really use a pidgin.
A talent for talons but challenged in valiance.
Is he really the mighty avian or its larval prey?
Man is the apex raptor.
Bird in the hand.
Evolutionary advantage which he carries is capture.
To rise is to die in the rapture.
Dead, in-private with wings spread –
a charter plane all slathered in marmalade.
Messy as when Barça plays.
Wedded to the neat ’cause he’s been groomed like the garter leg.
From a sparser age,
grown gents showed him how to pose tense,
how to defend against moments
when their weakness was potent.
Faux men standing so tall
they could be blown over by a slow wind.
A fellow felled by mellow acts
would snap. That
life as a dead body with a sheet thrown over its own skin.
Emotions
divide him
into the lowest quotient.
He mopes at those who share his fire too
but who have been given the permission to smoke it.
Bitter at the glitter
that has the shine that he rejects.
Not tough enough he bluffs
even though it’s littered with flex.

I look forward to a garden,
that shared, elusive kind.
But today resigned am I
to planting seeds
with bouquets in mind.

Placed in the sun and watered;
affectionately tended to.
Primed for filicide
my sons and daughters.
’Tis the hand that cuts them,
the hand by which they grew.

To nurture gorgeous corpses:
a grisly waste of time?
No more than placing
daisies in a vase
in order to delay decaying.

An unnatural arrangement
for which I hold the guilt.
When holding fast to doubts,
nothing surer than the wilt.

Unsettled is the one who trods
itinerant as vagrants,
who stops to smell the roses
‘cause they’re desperate for the fragrance.

Peddler of petals,
with whom the bloom is doomed fate,
dares to give you flowers
on our expiration date.

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