fraudulent. the dirtbag in me recognizes the dirtbag in you too. coast to coast under a New York sun taking a second look at the Hudson. can’t seem to forget that I wasn’t supposed to miss you. we were lies. now nobody’s around not even the shore and all those ideas of boats and the hopes they brought from other lands—mothers to some, just another stop to others. transient is all our experiences ever were as they were converted into versions better for another’s ear.
these stories feel so heavy. for nothing real, they carry a lot of weight. we weren’t listening when we were warned. our hearts were a couple of deadbeats when the beds were desert dreams incomplete without saguaro not even a thorn left for me, my, you, yours, or our sides. our rise was sweat on a dandelion shaken off in its plucking—flower to some, weed to those who knew better. a rose is for waking up but we’ve been up in the dishonest heat for days and nights already to come and yet already gone.
but come find me now. I’m trying to be a tundra these days. I’ve been embroidering the bits of brush with icicles so the permafrost can open its mind to a more decorative set of cries personalized to not disappear this time around in the wash when the coming clean comes to a head, face to face—red and blushing—but considering fading to black to let credits roll only to then take that credit for something everybody’s already heard before.
couldn’t trick the wind to take me back to you. couldn’t con the river to switch down to upstream and besides, what good would the games do when there’s only more to come and a riddle we wrote together but never solved? can we break our own code or did we lose our system when we tried out a new one of distance and a mutual disdain for waiting?
a scam will seek its own kind or find the lowest level to call home. and where’s all the thanks to get for leaving, hard as that was when the jig was up without any new gigs on the horizon? and if not by the cut of my jib then by what else can I present myself to you? you’ve already been long since withdrawn when I cashed out on those bets from other longshots stuck in mud so long ago unlike this stick, a secret daffodil on the low and disheveled.
the torch song in me sees the swansong in you. let’s cover up our anomalies in another number then if we can’t go on it’s over anyway. then when my suitcase smells of perfume when cologne was more our style I’ll talk about that one time when the sea was still around and full of smoke stock-still as an image for the taking and sharing of an upstate afternoon somewhere made up far away from this window that won’t carry me moaning to might and could not help neither auxiliary nor modal verbs in sentences served up for you with another course to come so we can then graduate and commence to another act.
the smokescreen in me sees the smoke and mirrors in you. let’s swallow our snide and snarky asides. that’s how we got used to what we were and now are once again nodding while going out of our minds and going for a walk and a smile. and maybe after a meanwhile of lost years in crocodile fears we‘ll find wisdom in moonbeams vanishing, torn, tearing and elusive, not worried, about me, you, us or we. and, where’s a twin, sibling, or even cousin when we need to start? a similarity and closeness that’s not a con, a trick, and requires no mark.