Monthly Archives: March 2018

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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