Musings of JR Simmang

My bed, a refuge. Here, the covers make of me a second flesh, protecting me from the harsh winds and blistering suns. For my life, as long as my breath can remember, I have been a mole, scrounging around my sheets, abounding on the bed, wallowing the darkness that darkness can allow. Constant people, mirrors of people, floating by my face, checking the tubes, hollow veins of my body, haunting my dreams, awake and asleep. My nighttime terrors, confused by my daytime horrors, convinced me it did not matter when my eyes were closed. Today, my fingers feel out for my legs, my shriveled excuses for legs. I could be lucky to feel. I could be lucky to feel anything, a needle prick, a hint at cold, the flesh of a woman, and respond with my flesh, controlling my fear and pain and private convulsion, and contolling hers as well. But, that, that, may never be again. I sigh. My breath a rattling revulsion, my brain asea without a propeller, my fingers... my legs... S...

I recently discovered a modified haiku named the Tanka. So, here are a few of mine: "Ahead of the Curve" Dreaming of a house built on the firmament of deepened, blue waters surrounded by luminous wings of solid gold feathers. "Simple People" We are proud people too proud to be disgrace-ed though we spit distaste on the feet of tradition; too proud are we to atone. "Underwhelmed" Wet lips, salivate fingers brush the flush-ed cheek eyelids flutter closed open to impassioned breath this agonizing rapture. "To Travel: A Thought" A suitcase is full only when the lovely memories of the past find a place among the small necessities of life. "Night Orchid" Before the day wakes before the dawn shakes the Earth before the light shines the delicate blue orchid smiles and sheds its nightly skin.

"Dinner alone" Dinner. Sure. Of course. Thank you. Please pass the salt. Wine. Water. Wine. Wine. The night slowly slipping to dawn. Laughter. Touching. Laughter. A smile, nervous smile. Corners of my mouth salivating, slavering with the ring of a bell. Sardonic lace. A moment. Connection. Wasted. Daylight brings a loneliness. Tomorrow? Time and money. Dinner.

I haven't been on here in a while, and it feels a little awkward trying to get back in to it, like falling off a bike and swearing it off for a time. So, I thought I would ease back in with something I am more comfortable with, a poem. "Bespoke and speak" Our last communique tempestuous and writhing with the agony of a too short message. For within that spanse expectations hang nigh, floating and weaving, sputtering and spoiling; Words losing sight of themselves, drifting further and further into static. Dialogue, dear precious conversation, confined within that delicate prison. Pick up. My words would truer find your ears were your ears listening. Pick up. This unholy ringing in my ears leaves my breath baited. Pick up and speak to me.