I wrote this poem earlier in the year. I guess I'm glad I waited to post because now it carries a whole new meaning. Aren't words amazing? I could listen to songs all day and listen to poetry all night (with some exceptions, no country or incoherent rap).

Going West, Going East

The spasm of darkness, the core
of my heart, the lining of velvet
beneath my skin, yearning for the
East, the right, the opposite side,
counter the moon, sun, stars and you.
Skin crawls and throat burns with thirst
like addictions to gambling, cigarettes,
sleepless nights or Solitaire.

Like a storm cluttered with electricity,
like a balloon quivering with air,
like a kiss whose echo burns
in the flesh, the West calls you forth
to its cool salty sea, pillowy pine
forests where particles, paisleyed
and coarse, curve across the sky.

With a glance, a tear, a burden
of lust, toasting our minds with near
intimacy, we repel like a magnet,
separate like Italian dressing. Electricity
pulses in the East and positive
potential waits in the West while we pull
taunt the strings and softly sing solo
arias on the moonless path.

I just can't explain how weird this poem is for me. I wrote it for a different time and place and here it is, making sense on a different dimension.