jaybeasley2

I have a great
life here, when I am not
awake and fat but
when the purple flowers are
upon my bed I am
even happier than that
and I do not want the
end of all I love
to be over the next
horizon, so I will
squeeze the life out of
ever second that is
available to me when I can
be there to see it,
and that is where I
will be
if you want to find me

so something came
across today
while I sat waiting to
be heard
I learned the hard way
and I asked your airwaves
did you get my last message
but the city, the arts, the people
can distract your antennae
while I walk I hurt, and talking to
myself helps too, this red pen is
the beginning of the end of
a trail with plenty of tragedy
yet I trace the outline of my scar
while being effortlessly ignored,
have you been talking to me
all this time?
sorry, the concrete, the street
sounds, the stroll in a world of turmoil
sent my brain miles away…

all days, near bliss,
and nearly every moment a famously
forgotten reason to find a smile,
one short rainstorm of hope and pain before
bright afternoon times of aged jungle
growing becomes a mighty blue autumn compared to
the first bursting upwards that fate and life
reveals, now I can feel this, our waiting
is lovely remembering and determined anticipation,
that searching for a story told, a story old,
an underneath, hidden type of motive never shown,
a place of peace not my own, a land
grown in a place we may hide,
a bland bonding experience that you make
more fun, oh happy night what porch did you
crawl under when venus rose? I will put out the
fire, I will give information, I have you behind my eyes,
there will be a meeting place, I cry and
rave and think of you, I have your mind in
a way that I thought I never would,
I need your rain

hiding
it was
in the back of the book
a few scrawled together words of
the mostly honest type
wishes that lead to the pitifull
sort of time, away time,
apart minutes that multiply to be
a touch that we have
been waiting far too short a
period of time to get our hands on
whoever could be that type of
picky love-filled territory in the head
those kind of words watch for
pseudo- authority inspections

once there was a time when I
felt I needed to tell you
everything and let you know
how good and fun everything
had been to stay
and now I know the days
you wanted were not me
locked up in a cage it was
how all your life convinced you
to make things go away
you may minutely show me reasons
not to finish the bottle or
the next one or to get too wasted
and yet I will not have to worry
about who is glowering over your
shoulder on the dance floor or who
piss you off my talking to me
once more or if I am making food
if I am making too much or if I
stay up too late writing songs who are
they for or if a woman comes up to me
to talk like we did last time will it be
because she likes to look me in the eyes
or if I only need one day alone
would it make you want to kill
me ’cause I don’t pick up the phone