Thursday, August 30, 2012

Sunday, August 19, 2012

136

Wasted time, wasted space, wasted hearts, wasted place 
You can't know what you're wasting your time on until you damn well wasted it. 
It seemed like a new place with all those overwhelming things we needed to consider.
Dish soap, new towels, cups, dishes. A spice rack. But before we knew it, the toe nail clippings were turning to dust.
Dust like fading blossoms we saved from outside and arranged terribly in tiny winter vases.
We could have flowers in the winter, unnaturally so. But it was natural to miss such beautiful things, and, why miss them if we had means not to? How simple the analogy of a flower pot - contain the uncontainable, a round girl stuffed in stand pipe pants.
Rusty jar-lid jams preserving plastic fruits to spread thin on stale toast.
We could simulate the living, in perforated life boats,
sinking, swimming sharks fin, a chance to win supersedes that it's danger there too,
but lest a tranquil tiger sleeps with a lamb.
You can't know what you're wasting your time on until you damn well wasted it. 
Wooly flowers could be undusted, jar jam lids unrusted, but in dust there is a faded beauty,
grey matter - a familiar mystery - not quite the clarity of white,
not quite the final period of black, but grey....
like the ash from a cigarette made beautiful in its own light.
But just yesterday I saw you kissing tiny flowers,
but then you stopped and turn to cry,
cause everything tiny and dusty and beautiful,
like you and me, was born to die.