Endless

end-

-less

like God stuck a turkey baster in the middle of the color wheel and spun them just for me just like every time i get nauseated with this giddy charm like i'm 13 and the babysitter just winked at me like i was just in the way of that goddamned cherub's line of sight and i was going like 95 down the tunnel of love smoking a fag and swiggin' on the old beam like that punch drunk love kind of crazy like i might go insane from looking too long at them.

end-like-an-afternoon-of-held-breaths-and-long-sighs-and-quickened-pulse-less

(and they had to be brown)



Endless by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

- bademailname

miracle

you never noticed me until
today.

I thought
I’d have to
tear out my femurs
with a steak knife
and borrowed fish hooks
for a
casual
glance



three
cheers
for small
miracles.


miracle by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

rumor

In crisp silence there came starlight
wearing the bedsheets of my sin

we tumbled drunk into fashionable doilies

she clamored the throes of existentialism
put poxes on peas in mattresses
with just enough irony
to make my face crack at the corners

and we rolled spectacularly in harvest moonlight and
broken beer bottles

albeit the glass was sharp
and the moon burned our backs

we coddled the Devil into a deal
knowing one of us was going
to get one over on the other

or so I’m told …

rumor by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

aroma

i thought of you today …

a concussion severely understated.

if i can escape
the soundproof cuffs

i might just be able to do

more than sniff your hair.

aroma by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Spoons

I made spoons with your pillow

ground my face into its back

... and in a deep inhale

(i can still smell your hair)

came a serene light of truth:

ironically, memory is a

not-quite solace

(and the fabric is cold)

Spoons by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Dizzy

I spun circles
in desperate search of North

... but all I got was dizzy

I scrubbed the same black-bloodcrusted spot on the floor for hours;
sought to blanch the tile white
with raw-white-knuckle-determination
and just a little lonesome

I've sung at stars
until vocal chords bent in half ...
some snapped in two

(open my mouth to prove it)

I railed and supplicated at false gods
rallied the long seventh inning stretch
with a glass of water and a slice of cold pizza

Ramified with a single planted seed in sallow Earth.

In the yonder of twilight and moonshine
a single nova caught
the silk net, lamented.

The incandescence shone brightest;
then immolated infinitely inward.

(Which struck my heart with a most disconcerting thud
As the dictionary lay open to page 1340.)


I spun circles
... until you.

Dizzy by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Playground Love

When I was five years old it was Tiffany.

She was the red-headed kindergarten bombshell in those maroon
corduroy overalls, eggshell blouse with ruffles, and pink kangaroos.
We shared a bus route, dated for a week ... and then she mysteriously
disappeared over Christmas Break.
She rubbed my back once, after something happened on the bus. I'm certain I've
repressed it - everything except the consoling period afterwards.

It was my first lesson: Love is fleeting, and ephemeral.

In second grade it was best friends Courtney and Melissa. They
tore a dolalr in half and each gave me a piece. The bliss lasted
two whole days, and I learned love is a many splendor-ed
thing. An excellent lesson.

Wasn't until grade three I found rejection. I also learned not
to cry on the playground during recess.

I discovered the little white lie in sixth grade, trading I
Love Yous with Christina for a whopping two weeks.
We also traded tongues in the hallway for shock and awe. I
was, after all, a year younger.

And on go the layers
upon layers upon onion skin layers of deceits, machinations,
frightening truths, and enormous wherewithal. And we wonder why this
shit is so hard, though we've rewritten the code
so many times like we're the goddamn IRS.
It used to be so simple to say I Love You when you
didn't know any better.

I didn't say it again until fourteen and stole my friend's
girlfriend. She lived thirty miles away in a different
school system. I found that Love is hard work,
especially when you have to bike thirty miles just for a
blowjob with braces. Yes also to Love Hurts.
And to the boomerang effect, for we dated again at
seventeen, and twenty, and at twenty-three ...

The layers fall sweet and unsurprised, in no
discernable order. I experienced the younger woman when I lost
my virginity. Somewhere along the way I learned to tell the
truth (Eighteen, with Allison, when I had to tell her the condom
fell off). My ex-wife taught me that taking the next logical
step makes absolutely no sense when your heart's just not in it.

When you read trashy romance novels, everyone writes about the
feeling word pang, like a pang in the chest. At least I don't
have to wonder what they're trying to convey. I have a
pretty good notion.

But in the here and now, I wonder if I'm just naive, like
I'm savagely chasing across failed attempt after chaotic dissent
for the sensation I felt when Tiffany touched her hand to my
five-year-old back, and moved it around a little.

Playground Love by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

On Hate

I hate the tall-fat guy wearing a ten-gallon hat that
always seems to sit deliberately in front of me at
the theater; and when asked
to remove his hat, i hate the realization that it is not his
headwear that is capable of holding ten gallons.

I hate the conversations I don't want to be a part of, but
always get sucked into anyway, either by force or by
my own loose lips flapping over there ... But c'mon.
Goddamn. I mean, Wicca is an accepted Theology.
But. There's. No. Such. Thing. As. Vampires, dude.

Seriously.

Now I realize Hate is a strong word. Too strong for
anyday, everyday use. I reserve it for things I cannot
escape. Irrational fears. Personality traits. Loathsome things.

For example:

I hate that I am a handsome tall drink of water from
an L.L. Bean catalog, but I must act like an arrogant
prick to pick up women, all because it's socially
unacceptable for me to be intimidated by them.

I hate too small coffee cups.

I hate limp handshakes.

I hate nonconformists that want to be unique ...
just like everyone else.

I hate being called a liar, or stupid. (Conversely, I
love calling both myself and others Stupid Liars.)

On a similar note, I hate hypocrites.

It's not as bad as you think. A little self-loathing
goes a long way. Keeps me from saying racist or sexist
comments, since I hate racism and sexism. Really
I hate most -isms to varying degrees, If only because
most are born simply of rebellious bull-headed
close-mindedness ... and I hate
rebellious bull-headed close-mindedness.

I hate fighting over religion. It's all the same thing, anyway.
May as well call it The Force.

Speaking of, I hate people that haven't seen the
original Star Wars. Moreover, I hate people that
refuse to see it, because there's never a legitimate reason.

I hate the stressful strict structure of time.

Most of all. Over everything else I hate that without
this untenable emotion, there could not exist the reason.
I hate because of its opposite and unfortunate
bedfellow.

I believe the yin and yang. I believe in hate so that
I may believe in love.

The up will come down, the sinful will claim penitence,

I hate to love.

On Hate by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Quickie

I bloodhounded the mattress

for signs of you

Stranger because you

sat three feet away

I just wanted

to remember

how we slept.

Quickie by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

While You Were Out

While You Were Out by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.