The Sound of Weight

How short lived
it all seems,
where all is ebony,
ivory keys,
where my fingers
rest so lightly
against the sound
of weight,
until somehow
it begins,
transforms itself
to music,
while the keys,
both ebony
and ivory,
at the press
of my fingers
lower, then raise,
and my feet, unseen,
dance beneath
this transference
of sound from weight,
on a single note
to end
in silence.


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How sweetly life reveals herself,
with beckoning,
come hither look,
with secrets kept
or sometimes given.

She makes way,
slides herself over,
with enough room left,
however momentary,
to fit oneself beside her.

She whispers,
and as she does,
the small hairs
along your arms
begin to raise themselves
in goosebumps.

And as your heart begins to race,
is it with fear,
or with excitement?
All depends on what
she tells you.

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Uproot The Weeds

Uproot the weeds.
Like a rake,
run your hands
through my body,
pull from me all
that never belonged,
and plant what
was always
meant to be;
in the sound
of the wind,
in the rustling
of leaves,
in how the night
in silent music,
where love cannot
help but grow
and expand,
until all that remains
is beauty.

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The Sound of Language

If one could write their life away, I would,
to be nothing but an empty space
of who and where I was
now filled with words,
with all the words I loved so much,
a descriptive feeling;
of wanting, of love, of living,
where I am no longer myself
but merely; a sentence without structure,
and the sound it makes
as it so gracefully falls from the tongue.

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The Last Ache Of The Flesh

If only one could be
the last ache
of the flesh,
with hands
on the body
in the smell of sex,
as the eye fills
of image,
and the mouth
of taste,
and the head
of hearing
the sound of voice.
If only one could be
the last ache
of the flesh.

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Fool’s Gold

He wrote the words,
that for a moment
glittered on the page
as though alchemy,
and like me, I wondered
if he questioned their
authenticity. If they
felt just as strange,
or foreign to say,
to see, to hear, as they
were for me to read.
The most difficult three
words, that can take so much,
that are so hard to believe,
that no matter their weight,
their shine, their durability,
the question still remained,
still asks, still persists;
if they were, or they weren’t,
in that transforming
moment of hope,
the real thing?

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I wear his words well.

Draped and often,
in the color of blue,
in the deepest of azuls
to drown in.

Till lovingly stripped,
my heart to be weighed,
for how deep
the saturation,
the color of red,
of how my love, it bleeds,
and for him.

While naked I stand,
so his words can proceed,
to wrap me in the fires
of a sunset.

Until stripped again,
and on a bed of black,
he crowns me
with jewels of starlight.

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This was a flame
I couldn’t control,
with words
like a wind
of passion
sweeps the body
to incinerate all,
to leave the heart
and sex both
smoldering for love
to come,
to root itself
in fertile ground,
for seed, for planting,
what love sees fit to grow.

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If You Must, Forget

Then go, love, go,
how the ache
of my womb
still longs for you,
and my mouth,
the taste
of your kiss,
to know
how long
the forgetting,
to know how
short love is,
to erase
dreams held
too closely,
all beliefs
I’ve falsely lived.
So if you must, love,
go, forget,
how this heart,
it never loved you,
how this heart,
it always did.

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Penmanship is Dead

I thought it might be easy for me
to stop loving a lunatic,
and so I had to learn to write again,
with a piece of paper and a pen,
just to get my thoughts out,
as if seeing them in ink
might actually help me undo them,
but so far, it still hasn’t.

I know, an archaic practice,
where I remember how the institution
forced me to write each letter
of the alphabet in a constant trace,
over and over, all twenty-six of them,
until by fifth grade, I had completely
mastered the shapes
and could reproduce them
in perfected artistic mimicry.

But even then, with my handwriting
near perfect, my teacher still found
something to complain about,
and told my Mother, if I didn’t
learn to hold my pen correctly,
my hand would fatigue, when later
in life, I’d be writing things such as
letters, essays, dissertations,
and novels, but hell, never poetry.

And so I tried to please the woman,
took the pen and tried to hold it
like they showed in the diagrams,
but every time I did, my hand could
never quite grip it right; the pen,
slipping time and time again, until
all the letters started to lose their shape
and my penmanship, it faltered.

And so I did what any fifth grader
would do; I rebelled,
and told my teacher,
I had to hold my pen this way,
as though it were the last thing
I’d ever hold in my life; like the rope
one clings to in a death grip
in hopes they don’t fall, but eventually
I know, we all do.

At the time, out of my short-lived life,
I think this was my first rebellious act
against the institution,
and probably too,
why I still love a lunatic
even when I don’t want to,
or maybe I do.
Hell, nowadays everything is typed anyway,
and so as they say,
penmanship is dead.

Dedicated, with love, to Mrs. Sharp

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I’m not sure why he believes
caring took flight,
as though the cage door,
I’d somehow left open,
forgot to close it one morning
and the window too

next to the chair
where I’d sit so often
in the living room
to read and reflect
where caring must have
also sat for who knows
how long on the windowsill

before it spread its wings
I’d never clipped, and felt
how the air could lift it
into that great expanse
of blue, that how could I blame
caring now? I would have left too.

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This mooring of me,
where I have
tied myself safe
in the harbor,
to rest for a while
in the buoyancy
of life.
Neither coming
nor going,
nor caught
in the storm’s
raging sea,
but rather,
in a necessary need,
in a quiet calm.
Where the waters
are blue, are warm,
and the winds
a gentle breeze.

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To be
the drop
of dew upon
the petals
of the rose
he touches
to feel
the liquid
his fingers,
until unleashed,
the flower’s
heady scent;

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To find small ways of being
that are so far
from the clamor in my mind,
in the trailing line
of ink it takes
to create a sentence,
or in how the brush manages
to pick up and load
the paint to apply
to a canvas,
or in the book I happen
to want to read, and which
somehow succeeds
in keeping me entertained.
In all these small
ways of being, I escape.

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I try to close my eyes
tight to the darkness,
as if I could make it darker,
but as hard as I try,
the light,
even behind my eyelids
continues in bursts
of technicolor,
as though
I had catapulted myself
into another universe
and now travel
at the speed of light
into a soundless vacuum
of nothing more
than thoughts that,
once I am back,
have opened my eyes,
will have to try
and assemble,
to make some sort of sense
out of all this current state
of meaninglessness.

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Remember the dead.
they can’t hear you,
can’t listen,
can’t comprehend
anymore what it’s like
for the living, have lost
all sense of taste, of
sight, of hearing, have
lost the ability to feel,
and have completely
forgotten the flight
of emotion, of laughter,
of love, of tears, where
the heart, now dormant,
lies quiet as a house
where no one lives.
So remember the dead,
before your own eviction
and you too
are forced to move.
Remember to live.

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NW 23rd

I’m just looking for a
square jaw,
broad shoulders
and maybe a thick
chin strap,
at least tall enough,
old enough, 40’s,
with a little bit of
salt and pepper,
who looks as good
as you did
in that blue suit
and tailored
as we passed
one another
on the sidewalk,
and how I couldn’t
hold that gaze
that sought to hold mine
long enough,
had to force myself
to look away because
I’m not so sure
if I’ve ever seen anyone
quite so damn
good looking,
that I still haven’t forgot,
and actually hope
it’s a route you walk often,
on NW 23rd.

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The Kiss

Maybe there will never be
the unexpected, the look,
the intensity of the eyes,
the arrival, the invitation,
a walk, a city, a drizzle,
a contemplation,
that leads up steps,
a quaint but old apartment building,
the sound of keys
in a door that swings open,
nostalgia while it’s poured
over rocks from a bottle,
a turntable pressing
vinyl to a needle,
the low light from the window,
the couch in the living room,
the cold of the glass
as it’s handed off to you,
the proximity of legs,
the taste of amber,
the glass, how it touches the mouth,
how the liquid languors,
and then with eyes that say all,
as though already a lover,
the kiss.

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How quickly September approaches,
and how much later the light
now wakes me in mornings,
as though a thought
slips in-between,
where I am wrapped loosely
amongst the sheets,
to pull me in closely,
to kiss me from sleep,
while eyes adjust to who and what,
I know will one day arrive;
here, in this quiet morning,
in this fading of the night,
from what is to what will be.

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Maybe I am all heart song,
sliding myself into
dusty pockets, full of lint
and rarely noticed,
as if I could, I would,
be a trinket to the world.

With all these words
unseen and folded, stuffed
down deep inside of pockets,
in all these jeans
worn used and jackets,
purchased from Goodwill.

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