Fading movement

Fading movement 3/13/07

I am sick of sleeping with your sweatshirt.
I am also sick of writer’s block.

When, if ever, will I get up from this patch of ground
And begin to dig?
I am sick of dirt under my nails.

My fists have been clenched for so long that I’m
Not sure how to play the piano anymore.I can punch the keys, though
And some days- some- it sounds like Music.

I drank expired orange juice yesterday
And I am still waiting to feel the aftermath of it.
My hands are at 10 and 2.
Always.
Thanks.

And you, my dear, linger around 12-Noon or midnight, I’m not sure.

You know, it doesn’t even smell like you anymore.I don’t really recall if you had a smell.
I still smell the same,
Though I have been tempted to change perfumes.
I think I need a muskier scent.

Changing the world used to seem noble
Naïve, but still noble.
Now, though, nothing but naïve.
Changing perfumes seems much more logical.
And important.

You manage to infiltrate most days.
How does that make you feel?
I kiss my fists at night now.
I blow my nose in your sweatshirt
And chop away at writer’s block.