hidden pilcrow

Holding myself accountable for things not turning out the way I wanted
always required a tad more honesty than I could muster at any one time,
like an attempt at the mundane touted as an elaborate kintsugi exercise,
except that the pottery was scorched and the gold turned out to be pyrite.
Anyway, I usually felt like I was never doing better than in a hospital bed,
involuntarily eluding the impending life in the medically induced abeyance
of an as yet unaware newborn.

Life insurance covers the event of death, but what insures me
in the event of life? So far, I keep my hands above the table,
even though most of the time I have no idea what to do with them.
But with a little effort, I can contain their primal truth and return
a gentle gesture. Except it’s all for the sake of appearances.
After all, we, the civilised, fill our prescriptions so discreetly
that the only suspicion that something is up comes from holding
the hair back.

You are never on time. “I’ll see you in ten minutes” could mean anything
from half an hour to a lifetime or so. It used to bother me a lot. I perceived
your tardiness as disrespectful and still smiled at you, trying to keep my cool.
On the other hand, how could I be angry with you for longer than the blink
of an eye, seeing you shake like an aspen in the wind even though it’s August?
Besides, what’s so admirable about my clock-driven mentality? Perhaps the effort
put into observing the hands of the clock makes it convenient for me to overlook
the stillness of my own.

For Miles

It never entered my mind that the kind of blue, the blue in green,
could simply squeeze me like a night in Tunisia, where smooch
sometimes follows great expectations, but often settles for alone
together. But as I know that it’s only a paper moon that is chasing
the bird when lights are low and everyone tries to catch that ole devil
called love, I can still choose between the blue moods of the nature
boy, Morpheus, and walkin’ with my old flame, Venus di Milo,
‘round midnight in the green haze of dear Old Stockholm, whispering,
“I waited for you.”

Forgive my verdant embouchure, timidly practised in dark alleys,
and guide my fingers through respite in somewhat hurried pizzicato.
There is no shame in apposition set off by commas, casually,
where every onomatopoeia could lead to spasm, but not staccato.
And when we leave the treble clef, the pilcrow binds all the untold,
giving us little more than what one calls tinnitus, till next time…

I was going to make a proper dinner,
but once again settled for a banana mash
with nuts, Greek tahini and currants.
Cooking for one has become a nuisance,
like intimacy as distant as the memory
of a smile exchanged with a passer-by,
and just as inconsequential.

When did we stop using fountain pens? I used to like the blue scribbles
on the pages of my notebook. And why would someone else’s words,
if one found them not worth the ink, still be kept in the ethereal depths
of circuital shallows?

I’m not looking for someone perfect,
but someone who would trade empty pots
on the windowsill for a good synecdoche
rather than fill them with jade plants;
someone who passionately navigates
through crowded bookshelves and empty
beaches full of sand-coloured pages;
someone who spices bread with a pinch
of Catullus and a dash of Khayyam.
That is the one I would struggle with,
because there are always some struggles,
and finally find out what Winger’s
boomshakalaka means.

As presumptuous as it might be, I think we nailed
the sobriety of all the microwaved expectations
out of the marital freezer, none of which exceeded
the level of spasm. And every time we tried to start over
because of some vastly overestimated ability to overcome
our inclination to numbness, it only ever got us as far
as a momentary inflammation of incarcerated souls.
No wonder we barely made it to our honeymoon
graveyard.