Antimatter

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We could learn so much from each other.

We’d tell and retell

our favorite stories,

take a walk in the park

and have a drink in the bar.

Finally, we’ve met

each other’s equal and opposite,

but there’s one catch:

we must stay at arms-length.

I want to know

your perspective

but all this time

with no contact —

there’s too much pent up

energy.

We could tear-up space-time

or wake the neighbors

both would be pretty rude of us.

I wish we could

have just one friendly meeting

without annihilating

everything.

Don’t get too close.

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From the Waiting Room

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I’m convinced that

if I got to see purgatory,

it would have those

dim old fluorescent lights

like in the dentist’s office.

Coffee tables

adorned with Styrofoam cups

and nondescript vases

full of plastic flowers.

I will fall apart before they do.

And even with all of those

ancient magazines

to read,

I wonder if I’d find the time.

My crossed legs,

already well acquainted

with pins and needles,

would dance in place.

Caught in the vacuum

of stasis.

In this case,

I’m just fine with the cold comfort

of “could be worse.”

At a crossroads

between appointments,

waiting for my turn.

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Enamel

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Though we were different,

we were not mismatched.

I always admired,

how the things

that would stop me

in my tracks,

rolled right off your back.

While onlookers may say

that I was clad in armor,

made from the “skin of my teeth,”

you did much more

for me.

And though we were not equals,

you and I made great partners.

All-in for every

moment under the flame.

You made making it bearable

look easy as could be,

and I put my energy

where it was most needed.

And though we were not the same,

we fit nicely together.

Generation Loss

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Forgery begets forgery,

begets forgery,

to the point that

even the watchful eye begins

to doubt itself.

Infinite renewal is not

continuous preservation —

what we forget accrues

and crystallizes.

The patina looms

the colors wash-out

and dry-up,

leaving behind bleached bones

and shadows.

Gaps grow

into gorges,

cleaved apart by

refrozen murk.

Even garbled noise and static,

is buffed away

by graininess.

The record becomes the message.

If you wanted to see it so bad,

you should have been there

when it happened.

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Feedback Loops

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It happened again.

When you can’t undo

you can retrace your steps.

“Walk me through it,”

you hear from right behind you,

it was your own tail insisting.

But your directions

fall on deaf ears –

your great fear

is that you’ve now

lost your place.

But it’s right

under your nose,

tantalizingly close —

I know that feeling well.

“What are you not getting?”

It’s always a game of catch-up

or keep away.

Maybe you can tell,

I don’t have all the answers,

I thought I’d been

making waves,

but all I’ve done is dig ruts

and kick-up dust.

Let’s try again.

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Sleep Paralysis

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Hazey under indigo light.

The most I can say

is that I’m in my own space

under my duvet.

Short on details,

I get a line of sight

from the corner.

Someone’s just standing by the closet.

I want to say anything

but I rouse no sound.

The figure shuffles,

mumbles and begins to take one

belabored step

towards me.

I want to get out,

but my muscles barely twitch.

As it’s foot hits the ground,

it bounds over my head

like a tiger.

I want to close my eyes,

but I’m transfixed.

I come to

and it’s 5:18 AM.

Sleeping sure does

take a lot out of you.

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Defenestration

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This has gotten out of hand.

It’s not the way,

I would’ve planned,

to make an exit. 

Angry crowds coalescing,

twelve stories below

expressing discontent.

Maybe 

I’ll catch an updraft

and glide away.

Maybe I’ll land

on all fours, catlike.

But they know my name,

they’ll give chase

with pitchforks and pikes.

This is getting out of hand.

Maybe they’ll leave the back door

unlocked for me,

or I’ll end up in the moat.

I sure hope so.

It’s my turn already?

This is getting out of hand,

I don’t know where I’ll land,

this might get a little

uncomfortable.

Trash Compactor

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Only with destruction

am I preserved

for time

immemorial.

Every straggler

and bedraggled castaway

congregated —

a formation,

a phalanx

of immovable objects

loitering.

The hangers-on

hanging out

a little too close for

your comfort —

sorry for any inconvenience.

But we were pressed to this,

left to our own

devices.

We’re just like-minded

and fit together

so perfectly,

with a little coaxing.

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Fog Lights

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The rift extends over the horizon

and all around me

are shades and shapes

indistinct.

Soft hums

of far-off chimeras

echo in the distance.

The river of asphalt,

completely still

yet winds snake-like.

Pass the torch.

With the flick of a switch,

cast away the mist.

Burn it all off,

scatter the wolves,

the bandits

and the cockroaches.

Every puddle, pothole,

and patch of black-ice

exposed.

Every wayward wanderer,

given fair-warning

of approach.

Come with me,

I will forge

a path.

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Motion Sickness

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Through no fault of your own,

you appear to be oscillating.

It truly is a terrible state of affairs

to never quite get your bearings,

my condolences.

They say, in due time,

you will sprout sea legs —

but even then

I’d probably end up with

two left-flippers.

Half-past 10

and I’m hugging the mast,

spiralling,

spiralling.

Let’s get down to brass tacks,

I’m about to spill my guts out.

I, sea cucumber,

have gone fishing

with my good chums —

but all I caught was nausea.

Ho-hum.

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