As I Left …
As I left the ATM
with a friend.
As I left the ATM
I looked back—I
don’t know why.
As I left the ATM
it happened—I
regret it.
As I left the ATM
it was the worst
thing.
As I left the ATM
everything fell
and crashed for us.
As I left the ATM
I’ll tell
you—I will I will.
As I left the ATM
our life was over
then.
As I left the ATM
damn me it happened
damn me for looking
back.
As I left the ATM
where was God then?
where were my senses?
As I left the ATM
I didn’t think—didn’t
think I’m telling you!
As I left the ATM
it just happened—just
came out.
As I left the ATM
why this—why
this of all things?
As I left the ATM
what are we to do
now?
As I left the ATM
we were just walking
away.
As I left the ATM
why didn’t
I just keep walking?
As I left the ATM
I turned—somehow
I turned.
As I left the ATM
the worst thing
in the world.
As I left the ATM
I’m going
to tell you I will
I’m building
it.
As I left the ATM
I need to shock
you
—will you
be?
As I left the ATM
please be please
be upset.
As I left the ATM
I turned and
get ready now.
As I left the ATM
I turned to that
fucking machine.
As I left the ATM
I turned and said—thank you.
As I left the ATM
it’s true—it
is it really is.
As I left the ATM
what’s happening?
what’s happening
to us?
As I left the ATM
fuck me for this
fuck me.
As I left the ATM
I turned and I spoke
to it I did.
As I left the ATM
I said it and then
heard it
—but so what?
As I left the ATM
I heard it and stopped
and all the world
broke.
As I left the ATM
I wanted to cry
but I laughed—so
what?
As I left the ATM
you know what happened
now.
As I left the ATM
June 14th
2005
with a friend.
Park
before fall trees being full
leaves tend green
song swings true
before fall one day going
friends do kissing
skies lean blue
during fall wind not alone
colour carries away
debris is born
after fall passing escape
easy seen out kites
kept lost in place
after fall you see through
branching of whisks
contain if proof
Spurtings
Drawing out of a
sentence or down from a face
bent musings come from a break making me so
growing includes the reasons I stop to wait,
placed, an inner
tense shot through with others,
porous upon a promise of more beckonings and
being fulfilled enough, figuring but silently.
Together we might
settle around an image
that leaves me once I drift. Do I need your face?
Must I always find your eyes in the end only
to cry before them,
asking forgiveness just
to insist on more, tapping the roots in doubt?
Backward am I at times, almost clearly torn.
Bent
Something
bad went in:
nothing
fit will come out.
Words
crook in ink shapes.
I
have been poisoned
and
the pain prevents
sense,
rejects
its
menu from
being
printed.
It's
a money dish.
Sick
figures wait upon a pocket.
Copyright @ Chris Gutkind, 2006
