Poems about forks

I know this foreign method
Made my throbbing veins its home
'cuz the familiar's not familiar
And I'm not fine
Lest I'm messed up on
Wine.
And 9/10 of all the times
I've tried to crack a smile
Since I lost you have
Turned out as half-assed lies.

I wander streets, worn out,
While I wonder where you are
And what you're thinking about while
You drive down Henderson...
I'll try to dry out
From time to time
But fall back into bouts
Internal I'm interred in
Eternally--and I'll never win them.
I'll. Never. Win them.

Not without...

Sorry...

I meander through months while
You walk through my mind

--and I'm glad if you're happy? --

But you were quite angry
With me that night I took
And torched our collection
Of 5 years' shared memories
QUITE ANGRY
With me.
And the things you said were mean
But you meant them.

And you were right
About how wrong I was
How bad I am,
And how I taste
Like lemon lies
On the tongue.

You were right.
And I'm drunk.

And sad and sorry and selfish
And stupid and absorbed by a
Salted skyline of cold, purple steel
Every night.

It sucks.

You teach kids for a living,
About the age of 9.
Me? I try to dry out
Now and then, time to time,
But it's hard.

And you're far.

And I'd still come if I could,
But it's hard
Following this heart
When it's buried
At the confluence
Of the Red and Assiniboine
Rivers.

Beneath The Forks...

And that heart? Like the ground above it,
It's covered
With shitty, commercial architecture
And the clothing of bureaucracy,
But DAMN,
We had fun there.

Didn't we... ?

Cheap toxic plastic in friendly packaging;
Bending under heat,
Breaking under pressure.
What pseudo-efficiency.

Take out the silver!
Savor the feast, and
Abolish interruptions.

Or stick with hollow forks.
Perfect polymers that crack
Under the weight of your gluttony.

Your life– a feast, punctuated by
The casual dismissal of those
Disposable fucks.

I must prepare for my Shine
Quickly she approaches
I look to the sky for a sign
Now fear she encroaches
Two options set before me
I know what I want
Though unsure on my decree
My talents miss their vaunt
And I could use some esprit
Revisit an old haunt
Or stay and let it all be?

You kill me
Like you want
Me.

II

We cannot sing the songs
In our blood. unless -
They Have blood
On them.
Or a song, in
Them.

III

Tonight, i have gone nowhere
And my adventure bleeds out
Like a stuck pig
In a slipstream... a unusual ghost fork
In a thin dream.
Too vast to be a wisp
Of my unguarded heart...
But too Human to be
A reflection of my wishful
Thoughts.

It is deep like the knives
Descend and sink, into the brevity
Of our get along.
It trolls the wound of our endless
Unforgiving-
And dooms the sweet spark
Of our forgiving
Yes.

Because it's all wrong.

I forgot a fork
So I'm eating my salad with a spoon.
I didn't feel like sitting in the cafeteria,
Where it's too loud and busy,
So I went home,
Where I'd rather hear a muffled trombone lesson
Than my best friends's stories.

(I'm in one of those tired-sad moods
Where my whole body feels fatigued
And my face feels sad
And I shuffle around;
No motivation. )
So,
I went where I am.

I wish I could spend all day in home
--the band room--
The place I go to hide.
I have to remind myself
It's just a classroom
That I'll probably
Never
Set foot in after I graduate.

But, those are thoughts for
A later date
When I can remember
A fork.

How is it that forks in the road
Are decisions that cut like a knife?
No matter what route we go
The choice may not be right.

The thing about inseparability is that you spend so many sleepless nights trying to familiarize yourself with each and every reason he named the arrangement of those walls "home" and when you finally leave (the candy bowl, the green Christmas lights, the keyboard, the twin size mattress, the bathroom cabinet),
Kenopsia lies in the forgotten combination code and you're left blankly staring at your front door and the splinter in your foot from the plywood floor and the unexpectedly obnoxious ding of the microwave and the look on your moms face when you have to ask which forks are in which drawer and when your cat paws at your tangled headphones but runs when you try to pet her and you remember that she is actually a he and you had to change his name because Matilda wasn't unisex enough for your niece, who's been making all A's in school, no thanks to you, even after the help you promised her was never provided, much like the bowling nights and painting mornings you once planned with her.
And you can't sleep at night because your arms aren't flexible enough to wrap themselves around your torso and rest beneath your neck like his did and your bed makes an unfamiliar screech each time you toss or turn or stretch, or blink, or take a breath and the light can't be turned off with a click of a button and the room is too cold without a radiating body next to you to fill the frigid air with warm words about running toward city lights, and you realize that you've dreamed of a home your entire life and you thought you'd never found it and maybe you still haven't but you've built a structure with his bones and use his curls as blankets,
But what the three little pigs didn't warn you of was that all it takes is a cloudy day to birth a storm strong enough to rip the ribs off their hinges.
The storm hasn't hit home yet, but it's almost hurricane season, and you can't remember where your dad always hid the flashlights from your niece; and light is shed on the fact that darkness houses vulnerability.

Wandering life's path,
Windy as it is.
Twirling through the journey before us,
In hopes of passing the quiz.

Hearts and mind collide,
Speaking foreign talk.
They rarely understand each other
The words don't match the walk.

Decisions become harder,
Then what to wear to school.
Many of our choices,
Leave us looking like a fool.

On this road of life,
A fork is now in front.
Where to go from here,
Is the answer you must hunt.