Cobwebs Soul & Stars

I am drunken with delirium;
a sentiment brought on by watching you, imagining the way you saw the room tonight. was the shade of flame the same shade that i saw bouncing off your skin?

was the bass as out of tune for you as it was for the woman sitting next to me, foot bouncing feverishly, as though horny and frustrated? did the wine taste as red as it look'd?

i watched you recreate life on a scrap of repurposed oxygen, and what a window! that pianist had twentytwofingers!
but of course he did!
how could i not see that?
What was i wearing?
did i spill any whisky or mouthwash into my beard?

I ran away to the bathroom for a respite of too many thoughts, too many lingerings and i was haunted by all the musicians doing dope and crossword puzzles; lines of coke and playing backgammon, figuring out the imperial evidence necessary to prove that you and i were there for a reason.

Perhaps not.
Perhaps the lavender i saw was a reflection of the wailing sirens i witness'd just as the drummer let one go and bop bam pat pat pat zing,
did you see that?

i know you did.
You told me so when the radio was off
and your voice carried, broke, then continued,
all the while i was wondering: when was the last time you sang for someone? when will you sing for me again?

do you hear this as a song?
shall i keep singing?

Wintertime as Isolation

been spending time throwing parties, punches, throwing away needless memories throwing fits of misanthropic festivities;
somewhere in all of this, i stare out my window seeing only trees.
Leavves falling.
Falling leaves.
Everything (re: everyone) leaves.

The leaves donot fall in a picaresque singularity; instead they fall in clumps, showing me that one needs to be a part of something in order to be remembered.

Through the wall i hear child's laughter. Either the television is on and what i hear is a recording, or the little girl next door is excited for dad to have come home. And all the while i can't stop thinking about the marmalade i never bought at the little shop round the corner from yours.

I am no closer to reliving yesterday than I am to forgetting tomorrow.