Lovely Lionheart

6/14/14

K. Calarco

There’s no judgment involved; 

no caustic looks; 

or rejection. 

My rescue, rock and home. 

heartbreak aligns with mine, 

never  

hopeless for our existence. 

 my pain is hers; 

hers mine. 

And when the time comes

when I have to do 

what’s best for her, 

she will welcome it, 

and it will be the one time she’ll 

have expectation; 

to do the right thing for her. 

Meanwhile we cuddle together 

thanking the Universe for keeping us 

well for the time we have remaining;

thankful to live and thankful 

for release to the other side.

Empire Stakes

"Your friend always," and "You're a good friend,"

phrases suitable for the high school year book, not expected from those who
 once held my heart and called it "true love."

"Your friend always," and "You're a good friend,"

uttered from the lips of those who once made
me feel invincible, happy without barriers, content.
Words so caustic that affect
my heart
as if

it has been tossed from
the top of the Empire State Building,
careening down
hundreds of floors
until it's not but

a shadow
on the sidewalk below.

"Your friend always," and "You're a good friend,"

words unsuitable from men whom I gave
 my entire self to,
words that reduce me to a mere
pat on the back pal
in the showers.

Not what I want or need to hear, not in this
 part of
my solitary life
where I grasp at straws

wondering when the next
depressed state will disappear,
like my heart on the sidewalk

beneath the Empire State Building.

"Your friend always," and "You're a good friend."

Gee, thanks.

Blind Run

Cliche alert: Life changes in a blink of an eye.

Mine has.

One day I feel comfort and security in life,
the next on the opposite end
of the poles.

Reduced to wondering
about the immediate future
and how

I'll survive,

life is just this stupid dance of
rolling the dice and living with
the end
result.

Happiness
fails me
with every roll.

Trust out the window;
curiosity too insecure.

I need answers
but have nowhere to find them.

No on to speak with.

No one I can pull
into the mess
known as my fucked up life.

Yet I can't help but
realize the truth
behind the self-fulfilling prophecy.

I've written about the man stuck
in a loveless marriage
and I have become the man
or perhaps
his bitter wife.

Did not see this one coming.

Can't help but wonder
where I fit in or if I ever did.

Can't keep thoughts connected
or find any balance as suggested
in today's horoscope.

My life is in neutral,
or perhaps grinding gears.

Why the suspense
when I've seen this
unfolding slowly?

Who can I blame?

Or maybe the fates
just like to shake it up enough
to make me wonder about life,

the universe

and why I have nowhere to run
except the corners of manuscripts.

Run Away

Perhaps she isn't capable of true love.

No doubt in my mind that self-doubt prohibits anything true.
Worthless and empty, a field of white with no light at the edge.

How can anyone embrace her when her arms
don't reach around her back? Dreams an illusion of desire not meant for her.

Mirrors shattered in
tiny pieces,
fragments so small that nothing reflects
except the empty sky.

Is it any wonder that the one
who proclaimed his true love
is filled with stress after so many years of
doubting her faith?

Because of him she remains the cactus. Filled with spiny pins,
resisting drought,
flowering only when the mood strikes her.

Her life the desert where few roam
and very little life exists.

Dreams of the past haunt her nights
under the starless sky,
flames rising to nothingness.

Her world a mess. Blank.
No room for prose of any color.

Why must she win
when it means little to her?

Yet she understands that
some rewards come to
those deserved;

but love comes to no one,
yet another delusion for the weak.

Dreaming In The Dark

What happens to promises after the sun comes up? Telling each other that not a day will go by without saying I love you; that we'll make love each day? What happens in our sleep that erases the deep seeded feelings of you're the only one for me? What type of sleep nymph skips through our dreams and sprinkles amnesiac dust over our gray cells? Does she laugh as she skips? And where in all her might does she not feel some compassion for the one who grasps for a shred of emotion? Does ice run through her veins? Does the night make all the difference in our life, removing promises and leaving nothing new for the sun to raise? Not one shred of evidence that I once loved you with every bit of my soul? Where is that soul now? Passion diluted with a few hours of dream time, the mighty eraser known as dreamland. Weary is my heart for it has no one to cling to during nightmares, leaving me cold, alone and without one shred of recognition.

Eskype

Looking at myself, I hate it. The face all white and saggy; the smile crooked with the years of frowning over half-baked situations. It's not who I am. Complete stranger whom I seldom visit. Not the same reflection the mirror partakes, it's the one in the Skype screen, the one that takes no prisoners. The skype doesn't lie, but I wish it would or have the ability to add some filters to diffuse the horror of it all. A little bit of dusk around the edges, erasers for the folds and droop of eyelid. And when I gaze at this vision I wonder of the first impression it gives. Does it make people want to pass? Not get to know who I am beneath the melting image the years created; gravity not anyone's friend. I know as I see it I'm reminded of my mother who had this permanent scowl as if everyone on the planet was out to disappoint. Not a standard I want to envision or offer. Yet perhaps if my look is offensive it will accompany my need for alone. The solitary I'm comfortable with. Who I really am. Lover of greatness; dissuade of warped vision. Beauty in the eye of the beholder, fragile lines un-admired by me.

Not Feeling (It)

Anything is possible, but why is it that when visiting my other house I felt strong vibes, lightening of my muse bathing me in light? Doesn't happen at my present address, in fact it's like living in a constant solar eclipse, missing the really cool phenomenon of ancient cultures. Bricks and mortar shouldn't affect what comes from beneath my skin, but as I walked into my former home its pull kept me nailed to the floor. With it I felt all the good creative juice flowing through the smells, from the windows that still posses the spittle of my best friend. Why does brick and mortar posses a special spell. Has it conjured a curse to follow me where I presently live? Does it hold a grudge for leaving? Did the pool liner malfunction as a way to command its destruction, or am I just waxing poetic because I'll otherwise melt into a puddle of regret? Life isn't supposed to be this difficult. My soul isn't supposed to sit in the dark and wonder why my fingers aren't kicking up some very good prose. But still here I sit with many ideas but not an ounce of courage to spill to the page. Ideas trapped behind the shadowy sunlight of missing splendor. My muse is anemic.