the cicadas returned that summer, every fourteen years they do,
clicking in distant nighttimes, in the ranging forests behind
our neighborhood. when we talked, there was so little on my mind;
nothing of love's imminence or of the passing looks
of former selves, but of bonfire light
and of chlorine skin. at times, the shadows were just right
and whatever blend of despair and pity
were sailing in your blood vessels then,
if it'd entered your heart and started churning,
i couldn't tell.

you were afraid of them, those cicadas;
that much i can remember. but your other fears
were out there buzzing too, in anonymity.
and us living as we did, following the lightning bugs
that flew into our corner of the yard, your dogs
baying within the house, our bodies perspirating
in the dead of night - i wanted to perceive it as
a fleeting specter, as harmony. and if that buzzing
grew a little louder as i wrapped my arm around you
and drew you closer, running my fingertips here
and then there, leaving a light kiss on the top of your head,
i just couldn't tell.

but in the end, someone has to take the blame.
in you there is such little residue left,
save for the sweat and the embarrassment.
i still cling to a momentary stillness in the air
and breathe in a more melancholy tone as a stream
of summer light comes in through the window.
i brush my teeth and i trim my beard,
but it's something entirely different to smile for the mirror,
ignoring the way shadows distort everything.
i can tell you that it's been almost four years since,
but my life is still being manned by the puppet strings
of that summer. and that i still haven't found the will
to bring someone else into my bed and explore her body.
or that i have yet to find that extraordinary youthful rush
of fishing for someone's eyes between their gleams and glares,
the passion to hunt for what's actually there,
below the murk resting on their surfaces.

in ten years, the cicadas will stir once again
and this all may be a memory i keep thoroughly suppressed
as i order another drink at some hotel bar.
the bartender may be nice, and the woman a few seats down
may keep looking at me every few seconds,
waiting to catch a glimmer of my eyes. but when the punishing neon
and television glow coalesce with the nostalgia,
with the dream of finding truth in a string of summer nights,
her looks may be genuine, telling me to buy her a drink,
and end up talking past the bartender's last call.
or they may not.
either way, i won't be able to tell.
here, My Dear, here it is
Very, very good. Thoroughly enjoyed reading that
Current Gear
Washburn WI66 Pro //
Ibanez Prestige SA1260 //
Schecter C1 Blackjack //
Fernandes Ravelle Elite //
Wahburn HB35 Semi-Hollowbody
Blackstar HT40
You make the imagery entirely too easy to get lost in. I felt I was in the field. Wonderful, wonderful job on this one, Subway.
Holy hell this was good.... Wish I could provide some kind of insight here but all I can say is keep doing what you're doing.


"Art is always and everywhere the secret confession, and at the same time the immortal movement of its time."

No problems with this; you did a really good job with the last stanza - you brought everything, that ths was building up to, into a down to earth experience.

I wasn't feeling this part though "and whatever blend of despair and pity
were sailing in your blood vessels then,
if it'd entered your heart and started churning,
i couldn't tell." It didn't read very smoothly at all, and as consequence, it ruined the flow.

I didn't have a problem with anything else, though
This piece is immense. I'm not going to bed yet but my eye's starting to twitch a little, so I'm going to take a break from the computer, be back in a few hours or so to give this a proper critique...

That said, on first read, I did like it. You have a huge talent for imagery.
Man... I'm no big fan of poetry or nor shall I even attempt to give you any thoughts on how to improve this... Its fantastic! Really drew me, very good job, I will be happy to read more and more of your work man
Last edited by Bag'ed at Apr 5, 2011,
hey, it'll come again. we're not as stained as we think we are, I don't think.

as far as the piece goes
very beautiful, always is - you have a knack for that, making beautiful images and tactile cues that bring a reader in. I think in general you could use more focus in your writing to say what you really mean to say rather than start writing with a general idea, throw in enjoyable things, and come to an ultimate resolution. that comes with time and intent and all kinds of other things though, things I'm not sure you're too concerned about at the moment, so I'm just happy to see you writing and read what you have to say. let's catch up soon homie.
Quote by Arthur Curry
it's official, vintage x metal is the saving grace of this board and/or the antichrist

e-married to
& alaskan_ninja

thanks a lot, guys. much appreciated. and yeah, i know what you mean, saadia. with this piece in particular, being focused in the economical sense wasn't a big concern of mine. whether i'm right or wrong about that, i don't know, but it was important to me that i made this more drawn-out due to its significance to me personally. thanks again everyone
here, My Dear, here it is