Ted, the cell in the small intestine

Abstract is difficult for me
-but-
I can tell you that
today
I know
rooted somewhere deep inside my small intestine
a tiny cell named Ted
is having a heated discussion with a friend
about how my brain
must be experiencing the exact same emotions as
a jelly donut in SoHo.
They have decided that this donut does not deserve to die
just because the baker decided to make said donut delicious.

It's not the donut's fault.
Why should he become
69 cents worth
of some stoner's sticky pleasure
and then be promptly forgotten?

Another cell
from the recesses of the large intestine
(I don't know his name)
counters back:
"Ted, you forget how vicious things are out there.
What about the poor man making the fated donut?
He must have motive.
He must need money to provide for his basic needs-
a family, shelter, and all that."
He has a very high-pitched voice
for a cell residing in the larger of the intestines.
"At least," he continues
"It seems that way to me
but what do I know?
I am only on the interior of
exterior goings-on."

Ted seems to hang what may
or may not
be his head. He and his friend move on
to another
lighter
subject-
temporarily reprimanded.

Trampoline

When you talk
you are as animated
and as emphatic
as a man on a trampoline.

I see:
fireworks
flowers blooming in hi- def
babies welcomed to the world
sunset in fast forward
the circus through 2nd grade eyes
hummingbirds in warp-speed flight
sweaty love stained bodies moaning in unison.

So please please please
Dear Heart,
don't stop jumping.

Lover, not my Lover

Hello Lover,
but not my Lover.
For though we dance,
feet-light and head-heavy,
we aren't quite there yet.

Lover,
not my lover,
you confuse me.
Sometimes it's as though
you've set up your tidy little home
in my brain.

You decorate your walls with my thoughts.
You've always had a taste for abstract art.

And yet at times,
you are cold.
Eyes like No Man's Land, and it takes some extreme
manual labor
to squeeze those three little words
out of your tightly sealed mouth.

Lover,
not yet my Lover,
I don't know how to give you eviction notice.

All I know is that without your walls to decorate,
the paintings of my thoughts wouldn't be nearly as beautiful.

Ramblings

A star burst.
A wind chime in a light breeze.
Glitter under the eyelids.

All I know id what I feel.

Tingles.
Laughter.
Bright lights.

So forget about the menial things.
Work.
Responsibility is too heavy.
Keep it light baby.

Your hands like electroshock therapy.
The purring roar of a V-8 in a muscle car.
A giant bowl of mint ice cream.
A morning spent warm in bed.
A locked door.
A letter from a friend.

Fuzzy.
Warm.
Inviting.

Like a spanking.

Don't ever stop loving me the way that you do.

Death

I have started to understand suicide.

The death of one's body is not as scary
as the death of one's mind.

It is so difficult to cope, ,
and turn it into something.

Play house.
Smile.
Everything's great.

My house is dirty.
Cringe.
I'm not afraid of death anymore.

Love Diagnosis- the Project

Emily needs intellectual stimulation. She's been referring to herself in the 3rd person- just not a good policy. This is her idea:
All those people you watch- the couples, the man with the baseball hat cuddling his wife on a park bench, stroking her hair as their children run around in front of them. that old man sneering at the waitress in the cafe on the corner. That woman with the fire engine red hair who gives you coffee, and announces the fake name you've given her with a drumroll and a piece of history... Crawl in their heads. What does love mean to these people? How do they love? Why? Motivations? Insecurities? Turn ons?

I will be writing a series of blurbs from the perspective of these people that catch my eye, and write what I think they are feeling... No poetry. Journal type entries. This should be a challenge.

Welcome to Love Diagnosis.

Complex

When people ask me about me and you
I answer: "It's complex."
I don't have a better answer than that.
We have vague mumblings about the future
but both you and I know better
than to put all of our eggs
in one basket.
You have not committed,
and I'm terrified of falling.
I wonder how long we can live in slow motion-
if we'll eventually get agitated and run full speed
ahead
or away.
I guess, my darling,
this depends on you.