Monthly Archives: January 2018

West

If I weren’t so tired
I might tell you
how lost I’ve been
in thought of late,
or how I’ve learned
to walk again
to appreciate
my legs I think
even more now
than your eyes,
they ever did,
or how now-a-days,
I spend most
my lunch hour
at the window
watching, wishing
for escape, because,
to be honest,
my thoughts have been
so disjointed
with my bones
now held in place,
that I know it’s only
a matter of time
before the winds
swing the other way.

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A Conversation

Corkscrew Neanderthal
tries to burrow his way
back into our brains
thousands of years later,
an all out assault,
an affront none of us
have prepared for
in the dumbing down
of culture. Before we
know it, we are walking
again hunched over
and soon forget
how to communicate,
reverting to facial gestures;
happy, sad, sick, mad
language reduced
to nothing more
than a short sentence,
a grunt text,
that most of us no longer
even know how to hold
a conversation or let alone
eye contact. And as always,
women are still being
dragged off by the hair to mate.

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The Eternity of Language

Shall I clutch words and books
this greedily?
As though my very life depended
upon the ink, the type, the binding,
that words might outlive me?
In the totality
of all of man’s existence, it is only
in the eternity of language
man seeks and finds immortality.

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In The City

The night has its own language,
in hushed undertones
the neighbors conversations
travel through walls
and concrete ceilings, though
it’s hard to decipher
whether they speak of
joy or anger but,
it doesn’t really matter,
as the cars on the road below
racy by, and one in particular
with an oversized muffler,
as if to announce, “testosterone
has just left the building,”
and is on the prowl for the night,
while a lonely dog howls
from where its been left alone
and locked in a third floor bathroom
to cry for a moon it can’t see,
because how rarely the night,
it never sleeps – in the city.

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Later

I’ve contemplated
how many words
I’ve yet to say
or left unsaid.
Have looked,
found some,
discarded others,
siphoned off the best
and catalogued
the rest for later,
and at times, I’ve
simply kept
the chattering of words
quiet, and somehow
avoided the temptation
to so haphazardly,
“use my pen.”

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Open

I have closed my eyes
in the dark,
but I know
you are there,
somewhere,
on the other side
of my eyelids,
where I am found
wishing always
that you will be there
once they open.

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The Weight of All Things

What part of the body aches
when I tell the curve
of my shoulder,
the bend
at my waist to “hush!”
Will that make them stop?
When desire burns
like a flame
for the soft trailing brush
of your fingers,
for the intertwining
of our arms, our legs,
where I have to wonder,
is it the body or,
is it the brain?
that wants this much
to measure
the weight of all things.
Like the length
of your legs
against my own
with how much pressure,
how much force,
pressed as though
two flowers
between the pages
of a book,
is how I constantly
want to find myself – with you alone.

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Happy Discourse

If I speak of you as he
as though unknowing,
casual observer,
stranger on subjectivity,
with mental notes taken
and a glance watching,
there are so many things
I could mention,
so many things
worth mentioning
I could say
I like about him,
thoughts of how it
might be
to be loved so inexplicably,
no rhyme, no reason,
but just because,
every movement, inflection,
the way one talks and walks
and simply is, is everything.
To be loved like this,
simply because one exists
is to bring some kind of
happy discourse to our being.

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Universal

If I speak of myself
do I speak of you also?
Is experience universal?
Do we have the same
highs, the same lows,
but at different intervals?
Have we each laughed
just as hard, or cried
so softly that
no one could hear us?
Or have our hearts
been broken by both
joy and sadness?
And have we both
looked in the mirror
and on the same day thought
the exact opposite?
throwing the hairbrush,
“I can’t do anything with my hair!”
or, “damn, I don’t even need it.”
Because if I speak of myself,
I must speak of you also,
where I and you has always
equalled – two.

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Absolute

I never said I was good,
but ask me,
and I will tell you
what I am thinking,
or perhaps
with just a look
to raise an eyebrow
would be enough.

But good for you?
Maybe, no,
undoubtedly, for sure.
But I never said
I was bad either,
but bad for you?
depends on context.
Absolutely, absolutely not.

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A December Morning

How do I describe a flat gray white
sky on a December morning?
Or tell you how an arrow of geese caught
my eye as they flew in formation East
as though South no longer existed?
Or how I watched the Starlings
land on the wires that crisscrossed
the road above me while I waited at the red?
Or how I feel almost every day, no matter
the color of the sky, or the birds that pass through it,
but only, how often I find myself wishing
that you were simply there – to see it with me.

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