The Cosmic Alarm Clock

to some with a life, and some who need one
Weary,
We rise, summoned
By that cruel device, that perches
At the edge of thy bed,
Crying (its annoying cry)
Waiting
To be struck
So that it may fall silent.

Silence: we pause,
Trembling fingers seeking watery eyes,
Those sensations that say
”I am tired. I must sleep.”

Thou hast slept. Thou must rise.

Staggering (without resistance)
Into that room
With its bleached walls
That tiled floor
That coldness
That seeps from the ground,
Burning the joints
Which we rub,
While in the glass there stands another.

(Could it be . . . ?)

With its disheveled hair,
Those reddened eyes,
Those dry lips, molding
Themselves, forming
A syllable, uttering
Those silent words.

“Must I face another day?”

The shower is hot, pouring
Water onto hands, exploring
Fragile body with bar of soap,
Eyes closed, fingers grope
Across the tray, finding
The shampoo, grinding
Fingertips on scalp, cleansing,
Though the soul remains impure.

Here, take this towel:
That thy body may be dry,
That they tender flesh may be warm,
Though thou art cold.

Breakfast: monotonous: eating.
The sound of footsteps, greeting
Another: “Do I know you?”
Of course! The one I slept with:
Last night:
The room was dark.

Have I known thee so long?

Yes, you are the one I love.
I remember the sweat,
And your flesh, unresponsive:
You were asleep
Before you crawled beside me.

This metal, about our finger,
A prison where memories linger:
Iron fetters that command
To supply the other’s demand.

“If you really love me . . . “

Love is a two-way street
That we are waiting to cross.

The other day, I remember,
The coldest day of December:
Christmas holiday, snow on street,
Gloves on hands, shoes on feet.
Trudging through the ice,
A cup of coffee would be nice.

“Make it yourself,” you said,
One mere statement (your voice dead).

In spring, your fresh scent
Filled my nose, and I meant
“I love you.”

In summer, our days were spent
With heated passion, and I meant
“I love you.”

In autumn, you underwent
A beautiful change, and I meant
“I love you.”

In winter, we simply fed
Each other’s desires, and I said
“I love you.”

The words, brittle,
Spoken, crumbled,
Broken, carried
Away to a place that I
Cannot find,
Have not seen,
Will not seek,
Do not comprehend.

“During the night I dreamt of the day,
And during the day I longed for sleep.”

Homecoming:
Paper held between arms and side,
Fingers fumbling for keys.

Inside:
The paper drops onto the floor,
Keys the same treatment get.
Fingers have but one small chore:
To turn the dial on the television set.

“Are you alive?”

Not now, this show is good:
It is about a man
Who breathed clean air
And knew adventure
And understood love.

“Oh, another one of those.”

The staleness of sorrow in each exhaled breath,
The lingering despair and the fragrance of death.
Weary,

We collapse, summoned
By that cruel device, that perches
At the edge of consciousness,
Crying (its annoying cry)
Waiting
To be struck
So that I may fall . . .


© Copyright 2000 — 2009 Jeremy Likness. All Rights Reserved.