And Vice Versa

Perhaps you are the shadow
who sees me,
on the other side of the glass
where we stand facing,
for how can one truly know
the shadow self? And with
what kind of recognition?
As though the ghost
who goes about in constant,
opening doors and windows
of the psyche
looking for a way out
to feel upon its face – the light.

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This Vehicle of Saying

How many words
come back round again?
as though in circles.
Is the pen but a boomerang?
I have never quite
learned how to
throw accurately,
but somehow the ink
finds its way,
and out of the veins
the heart and soul
of ourselves pours out
the interior,
in this vehicle of saying.

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In My Mother’s Apartment

From the window,
where I lay on the davenport
in my mother’s apartment,
I watch as the car headlights
continue down the glassy road
one after another, in a straight line,
until I find myself pondering
how the light stretches out like it does,
until it dissipates into the night.

 
My mother’s soft breathing
heard from the bedroom
where she sleeps,
and how the ticking of time
from the wall clock above me
reminds me of how much
time and light are alike,
and how quickly it manages to reach
the eye until fades to memory. 

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Undo The Past

If I could only aright,
or reorder the words,
or erase them.
Undo the Past,
and the basis
for every wrong decision
either one of us
ever made because of
too much misinformation.
If I could only do that,
then I would wake
to every morning – yours.

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Charm The Bees

The mouth is so full, honey,
of love, of words,
and I’m not quite sure yet,
how it is that I might
tell you, not quite sure yet,
how to charm the bees,
so that every morning
your toast is sweet.
Not quite sure yet
about all this buzzing
I’ve got like a hot swarm
hive in my head for you
no amount of smoke
will ease, when I’ve got
all this sticky honey I’ve been
stealin’ on my hands, but now
finger-licked and clean.
Not quite sure yet how to
tell you how I want to
eat and eat and eat,
all the sweetness you can give,
honey, but without the sting.
Just give me that.

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Drunk On Words

Oh, but to be drunk on words,
and how many words might you like
to take and taste from my mouth, darling?
With your hands pressed deep
into my body, as though a soil,
dark and rich, and waiting for your seed.

Sew in me, my love –

What shall you plant? As you take
from my tongue, my lips, moist and wet,
the words that taste of crushed grapes,
of longing, and of regret, which I have
none to give, but rather, with such a kiss
to see, that you might grow a vineyard,
and in abundance, always have your fill of me.

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Undo Them All

I have always been desirous of you.
Even now, in opening of thought,
of doors, of windows,
(almost), long since closed,
(almost), long since forgot,
but how quick I am to undo them
all, as the body responds
in wait and want of your arrival. 

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Reach

Is the body but a metaphor
led by desire?
Where what seed has so
quietly slept in me that
you so knowingly planted?
That in Spring might
break the hull and reach,
for what is this heat that pulls me
from my hibernating state
and begs that I might open?
As though a flower in the sun,
and oh, how I would so willingly
be intoxicated by your love.  

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If

If I were biting my lip,
and if you were watching me,
as though some voyeur
across the table
where you’d sit
drinking your coffee,
could I bite so hard
that I’d make it bleed?
And would I then look
like a vampire,
with hungry eyes, staring,
with contempt for you,
or for your need of caffeine,
or for your need of me,
that as I dabbed at the corner
how I’d mercifully think,
how I’d like to put you out
of your misery.

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The More of Undoing

In the process of undoing,
how unexpectedly I find
how you are here with me,
once again in the room
where I am filled
with nostalgia,
as I pull my arms
from the sleeves
of my blouse,
my long legs
from my trousers,
and step out into light
that streams in at a window,
where I want to be seen,
but by you and more clearly,
in the more and more, in the more of undoing.

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Right From Left

If I unpack the mind,
as though I were moving,
which I am,
from left brain to right,
tired of all the logic
and wanting to forget
how many years
was it spent?
In the wrong hemisphere,
discarding this,
discarding that,
in getting back to right from left.

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Embers

What embers
lost
inside myself
still burn?
You, who stokes
the fire,
turns the ashes,
seeking heat.
What warmth
have I forgotten?
What blaze
in me once roared?
In want
of rekindling,
what fire
began in me.

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All Of Them

I suppose there were ways,
and perhaps still are,
you could bring out
the worst in me. Always
pulling and extracting,
as though every word were
a tooth I didn’t want to lose,
but how you wanted
all of them. And perhaps
that was the problem.
I wasn’t willing to give
while in the middle of so much
lack of communication,
because it always left me
guessing for the right word.
Later, after I had almost
forgotten (you), I fell in love with
my Dentist, because he could
somehow listen for all
the words I couldn’t say,
and as he cherry-picked them off
my teeth, he saved every one of them.

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Books

You sort of wrote,
“too many words,”
as though,
I could, “read them all,”
as though I had,
when I hadn’t,
when I never did,
as though, “you and I,”
had actually met
somewhere before,
and you said something
and I play acted,
put on a face, pretended,
like I hadn’t
heard a thing you said,
as though,
“I didn’t know,”
who you were,
when I knew
all along,
but never bothered
to take the time
to ask for your autograph,
like so many others,
didn’t know,
didn’t care,
why it was, “why was it?”
you were eyeing me
from the corner,
like some shadow
who had lost its voice
and still…
has yet to find it.

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The Other Side

I don’t want to write to you of lies,
the world is full enough already
with the glittering of tinsel town,
as though Christmas could somehow
make a tree more beautiful
than it already is, where the snow
blows over and covers everything
in a snow globe static white
is not what I want to write about,
but to convey what life might really
feel like and actually is – on the other
side of the glass – once you’re free.

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When The Minutes Run

If I let the minutes run
and forget, or refuse
to check the time,
there are so many
minutes lost,
where all of time
is but a grain of sand
on a beach
in an hourglass I walk.

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As If

How many ways
might I find
an open door
or an open window,
with so little time
left on a non working,
dead wristwatch
that I for some
reason keep wearing,
as if, time could
start itself again,
as if, I never did
break it on the
door jam, with so
little time left
to think, to ask,
what word? or,
what combination
of words?
strung together
in the correct format,
might somehow
make their way
into your cerebral
cortex and…
well, you know,
make you remember.

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Above The Print

If only I might have known you more,
or met you sooner, perhaps decades earlier,
caught you reading something
in the newspaper, back when newspapers
were so much more commonly read,
and asked you what article
your eyes now scanned,
before smart phones held so much
of our attention. Back when I entered a room
and turned more than half the men’s heads,
and I wonder if I still would have noticed,
would have felt your soft warm subtle gaze
above the print, would have felt the energy
before I left. What setting would I have first
met you in? Would have seen that thick dark
crown of hair on your head
and a pair of shoes that would have
made me question, what kind of man
could make me want this much, as much
as I have? Even enough to go back,
because I’m not quite sure why the thought
of a future could feel this empty – without you.

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Cymbals

I remember how the cows came in
early morning,
mother, sending the call
with the ringing of the grain pans;
two metal trash can lids
now suddenly cymbals
as I stood at the barn opening
in black rubber knee high boots
amongst the muck of farm life
and watched
as they somehow mustered
the energy to pull their
heavy bodies up the hill,
unable to make it a full run,
but at least a hurried, hungry walk,
as the cold of morning oozed from
their noses; soft and wet,
with big brown trusting eyes
as they all filed by me
and into the barn, one by one;
each, at least a thousand pounds
of kindness – one never forgets.

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Some Kind of Semblance

It is though
the light taps
at the window,
“but I am not
ready to get up,”
as a thousand
letters begin
to file through
my thoughts
to form
some kind of
semblance,
where beneath
the covers
I am still warm
but my feet
hang out,
as the house
still feels like
early dawn,
for I did leave
the window open,
where night came
and went
and morning
still taps, “get up!”

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