This blåg is morphing into a repository for poems that I don’t feel the need to submit anywhere. It’s what I have in abundance to throw up here while I’m occupied with other things, to be perfectly honest.
This one’s new. Last October’s new when compared with the summer of ’04, right? Anyway, it looks like a sonnet, it rhymes like a sonnet, but sister, lemme tell you: it ain’t a sonnet. There’s no volta, that’s why. ♥
If only these conversations weren’t lined
with caramel-flavored puzzlements, or
arsenic-coated promises, but mind
you, all our dearest intentions are for
the academics. We’re operating
in the mines of the conditional. If
I loved you as you love me, then posing
these quandaries—your melodies in the rift,
they pulse within the brain and find their way
out of the heart with crisp logic—would be
meaningless. Every step I’ve tried to make
in this corridor is shadowed by the
elegies sung for all my empty words
—in this dissonance, I can’t move forward.