come down (the fire or the fuel)

she
is the
brick
i am the window
or something
like it...
who knows if thats right
maybe she's the lofty stars in
the blackest night
or perhaps a law broken
or a love unspoken
she is surely a catastrophe
and she is the loving arms
and the warm fuzzy sweater
laying on the sunday floor
and she is the glass of water
but
she
is
not
the rain
well, maybe the rain
if it were in a cup
bit she is not the sure thing
and she is not the luck
she is not a storm approaching
but she is lightning when she leaves
she is not
the walk on a warm day
and neither is she the
window shade
she is not the
empty street
but she is the breaking of the day
and thats not what i meant but
it is what i mean to say
she may not be the brick forever
but i am still the window
and
however it
comes down
she has completely
shattered
me

incumbent: or, what will

i am the man
the withered man
too tired for what is here
in front
and behind
so instead
i made chicken soup
from scratch
and contemplating the chicken
and how it lived its life
not expecting someday
i would be standing in my kitchen
rooting through
his entire being
looking for every little
bit
and morsel
to honor his passing
for my nourishment
and then i thought of you
and your candied smile
when we drove naked to the lake
for skinny dipping
oddly named
as i wasn't skinny
and you would 't dunk
your head
i guess tonight
is another small moment
in a life
amber lit
here in my sanctum
i suppose
i will find it
my polar bear on main st.
something big
to tear me
away
from my insomnia
and my incumbent needs
and all of this stumbling around
some might say
i need a shrink to
make me shrunk
and maybe
i need to be made
even a bit smaller
before i can fit between my sheets
to go to sleep
and not
stumble around my apartment
making soup and
shouting at the cat
to quit
his incessant whining
regarding all these chicken parts
in my hands
3 a.m. and
now for the spoon
and the bowl
no...
(not that spoon
or that bowl)
i am not
that fucked up
yet...