Today,
the 29th day of Nissan, 5762,
the light was blown out
on another year.
The flame and the fire is absent,
the deafening pain is suffocated by
the lack of oxygen,
the back of my mind,
and fleeting memory.
I blew the candle out today -
just now -
to mark the second year
to bear the brunt of loss
to remember the gravity of trauma
to see again
her lying there
her black curly hair.
I blew out the candle today -
just now -
to mark my second year
without a celebratory friend
marking another year from birth.
I blew out the candle today -
just now -
to mark the second year without fraternity.
I sang you a poem
with your man near once.
That spinning dress I wrote of
in this ode and that.
There was the awkward departure when I left.
Goodbye outside my apartment
pregnant pauses near the alley way to your place.
You hugged me several times,
hoping that each one would end in the kiss
we pictured for months;
your honeycomb lips
anticipating.
Scurrying along
serenity took the form of little feet yesterday.
Dust trails
and scent are detective's crutches,
rely on senses seemingly numbed
by nauseating and circumspect speculation;
apropos and infuriating.
Fleeting is the feeling of importance
and relativity. I need a new lease --
Variety is the splicing of life and love. David Weiner 11:51
Saturday, December 27
I.
Some semblance of confidence
explains the propensity to ridicule.
As a child
I was quite mean to other children. However,
I have not made it my business to apologize.
Numbers are disconcerting when considerable.
Being inconsiderate has nothing to do with it.
I recall a tattoo that was Chinese for No Regrets
and promised to have it etched
on my body in Hebrew.
This recollection melds itself with a memory of a poem
by Mark Doty.
He lied about a tattoo he got,
much like I did once,
except I promised to get one -- that was the lie;
He said he had one that he didn't -- albeit blue.
Here,
in black magnetics,
is my oath, plain and pointless.
II.
Promises don't mean much when the promised is passed.
IIV.
People follow others
when vivid memories haven't been formed yet.
People's owns future memories of themselves
must be accounted for,
after all.
Datelines and histrionics can be
funny to watch, removed.
Though no fault of mine,
recommendations fall on edible ears.
OOOh I'm hungry.
Leaving disclaimers to rot
maybe and sometimes relieved yes and no.
Indecision veils itself under rudimentary suspicion.
I can't make up my mind.
Which is it...inveterate deference leads to welcome mat disorder,
chronic fascism leads to being pulled apart and paraded.
I prefer large crowds over dust-filled shrouds.
'Eavesdropping on six packs,
bar hopping IS overated. Trickle down ergonomics never applied to bar stools, imprints seem smaller.
Avoiding frivolity is easier than it sounds. Audible cacophonies envelope chaste ears. My tympany senses a symphony of empathy coming from you. But why? Has it been five years? David Weiner 15:49
I recently read
a piece of
and I had almost forgotten that
people still think poetry
must rhyme.
It's unfortunate,
this sans battle tested testaments,
this enveloped shadow of ignorance.
The cross-section of public poetry seems to be
collections, pieces,
by "songwriters," rappers, and the deluded.
It's all diluted, and even that's too easy.
Leave it alone Earnest,
your poetry's no good here. David Weiner 11:21
These days,
when tyrants use temerity to
incite dissidents
we, noblemen, fight with words.
If it weren't for this insidious nervousness
all would be lost for future's sake.
Unctious war mongers passing themselves off
as resolute utilitarians is a sure sign of things to come.
The melting pot of partisanship, the byway of legislation,
goading innocents with frivolity and lip service
hurries armageddon.
