Monday 5/29/2006 11:20:00 PM

No braids in her hair anymore. Used up the last of those rubberbands. Silent pockets. I sit there so long and nothing changes. We grow old staring at one another.

What to say. Apologies too convenient.

I gather my courage. All of it and still have nothing. I try to remember how it was to know what I wanted. Just grab it. But that had to be the xanax talking.

Not me.

No color on her fingernails. Only that soft blush of pink so neatly capped by the white. Beautiful cubism on all ten fingers. As they touch everything about me.

I've lived a long time, but haven't lived that much.

Still life requires no label for me to know how strong the contents.

The ugly always knows what it looks like. It's the beauty that looks in the mirror and never sees itself.

ozymandiaz said...

Oh dear, tragic and beautiful. It is something how that "ugly" is a felt sense. I know it is a tongue in cheek saying but "beauty is only skin deep but ugly is to the bone" kind of describes the situation well, no?
There is eloquence in your words tempered with the soft brutality of sadness.
Your poetry is often difficult for me to read as it is a bony finger that touches an old cold spot in my heart and mind, a spot that often times has sucked the warmth from my blood...

alcoholic poet said...

thanx so much.

i've always favored that other, similar cliche, but modified...

beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but ugly is everywhere.

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