Wax Wane

If you’re dead wood, what am I? Deader? Or algae growing on wood, ready for a scrape, or shade, power washer.

I instruct you how to block someone even though you’re versed in blocking me, just, maybe not when I’ve already blocked you. Strange how a thread disappears, a confusing edit making a 52 message string almost incomprehensible; people balking at nothing.

But we don’t balk, really. We’re blitzed and escalation sits bemused on our eyeballs. And really, I didn’t digest a thing which happened the last 6 months, or before, and I don’t see how I’m going to. Because the future is this unthinkable thing, you know? This unpredictable, potentially awful, ungrabbable, unimaginable, not-Disney-movie, piece of shit to plan for.

So if the choice is mine, like, seriously, and I get to pick anything I think will make me happy, then, what should I? How much longer can this wax and wane fester, like yesterday’s guac? And what’s with the wait?

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Interior/Ex

In the back alley by the bread shop I saw you. I pivoted like they taught at band camp, netball, shuffle walked like a sixties’ zombie. You were out the shop quick like an alarm was going and everyone forgot to pay. I caught your eye as I thought I wouldn’t when before I’d been sure I would, like magnetic leads to laptop connectors, asexual. Your nod was condolent, like someone asked if a film was good and politeness forced an answer. I asked your back if you wanted coffee but you were past me, heading to work or your wife’s or a girlfriend’s. You were plumper like a first generation iPod; I don’t know if you are, as you’re pieced from hearsay, other people’s photos on Facebook.

I thought that was it. The agonised chance slipped like trying to spot myself as an extra in the background of shows on terrestrial. But I saw you later. I found where you worked as they led me. You weren’t unhappy to see me; you kissed my cheek like we were family. If we’d fucked, we would be.

But we didn’t, did we?

It was nightclub busy. I met colleagues, you were happy like when we watched 300, the bus station kiss, solidly better than daydreams. You were complete like a charity shop jigsaw: surprisingly, and I couldn’t be happier for it. If I’ve one wish that won’t be it, but it’s the second or third, the back-up present if the one I want is out of stock, continually.

We said we’d get coffee, drinks. Your friends talked like I’d seen them last week and five years of shit, regret collecting like junk mail behind the front door in immovable heaps, or social network friends’ lists, hadn’t happened.

I came back and we kissed like forever. Commitments since were interim roles in other films which didn’t make a top 100. And I’d made it my mission to watch every Allen, Brief Encounter now duffle coat marred, impossible to separate from you, like food cans when the ring pulls snap.

This was the start of a series, season, a show which would run for five years, six, or four, its cancellation creating online petitions, campaigns, and Bible pain in which hope’s there but cracker thin, wavering like an ombré dip dye. And I love.

Brief-Encounter-Universal

We’re Moving On (NaPoWriMo #15)

It precipitates

he TV declares it’s over via foreign policy, kissing wife and off-camera looking

He’s impossible

to get over on six TVs playing simultaneously in your bedroom/office/house

You scrapbook

the tour bus start and the White House end and restaurant cleared security

Battery-less remote

moving on

I’m a Spy (NaPoWriMo #12)

They claim fraud but it’s not
I saw you cry your make-up off
still in your slippers, robe
asking your sister how to feel
when you’re married

In your heart isn’t fraud
but Jack’s clogging ventricles
bubblegum
Tom’s can’t-do attitude
absinthe, Patrón
Terry’s seven night drinks
Ben Affleck
and your husband’s refusal
to look at you

To hold séances with you
compromise on restaurants
or art
and who’s funnier:
Owen Wilson, Adam Sandler?
And who’s at fault here.
secret mission

Erase (NaPoWriMo #11)

Is it movie cliché
that brains remember who we loved before war
post-war
prior to alien invasion?

Or is this fact
what we’ll face in 2064, 3018, when the world
Earth
is no longer ours?

Tom’s who you’d pick to convince
he was it, forgot
when they wiped every memory
with purse-size sanitizer

and any dream with a face like yours in it
he has
is epiphany
premonition

and in a past-life or this one
just, like, decades ago
you were together

and if he’d re-ring it
put another on it
you’d save the world and shit.
tom c

Forgive Me Right Now (NaPoWriMo #7)

Jack says, “I’m an alcoholic, I guess,”
after punching a mirror.
I say don’t guess – know.

Therapist says set boundaries
but police tape needs ironing
and I don’t do bitch work.

Jack says, “Don’t take my baby away.”
Mom tells us stories
of wrong choice people.

All dead now.
scottd

Say I’ve Crossed A (NaPoWriMo #6)

The playback footage of five years
six ago
reminds me and I ask you
interloper
documentary documenter
if he’s changed.

You say, “I don’t know, Pam.
You all have, I guess.”
I’m trapped in pull-back moments
of what was
feel every culpable inched nerve
of almost.

Tarantino in that video shop job
each tutorial second
of must-watch
pre-empts a connoisseurial grab
and you’re ready to take now
Brian.
crossed

Gone Still There (NaPoWriMo #3)

Instinctually, I check pockets
of school shirts, charity bag donations
because Mom washed Dad’s wallet
and a dollar mulch isn’t spendable
unless it’s just sweat on it.
Value isn’t learnable
a tidy room’s not bankable
because P’s Amex is the 1-Click
Amazon Prime trial.

This try out
is a contract collect
that feels like a date
you don’t have to face
post-fuck
but there might be a send back
get out clause. Refund.

Third try’s it
and if it’s not, don’t tell.
This is comfortably purgatory.
midnight

Miami (NaPoWriMo #1)

I’ll turn my hand to
anything.
Veterinary college, marriage,
Coco Pop cake baking.
The ring
is a nail’s width,
slides, so the underside
of my hand’s scratched.
One month
a handful of teeth
courtside seats
and the American dream:
stage Mom,
pension by your forties.

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