Monthly Archives: April 2018

Against The Brick

How accustomed
I had once grown
to the sound
of bricks and mortar,
in constant
coming together,
to build a wall of lies
around the ego
to protect,
that I had almost
forgotten,
so far removed
now that I am,
from that familiar
scraping of cement
with the flat
of the trowel
against the brick,
that by grace
did I finally discover,
that it was always
so much better
to live instead
by what the heart,
it wanted.

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To Be Heard

If only to wait for the quiet,
that I might relish in a room of silence,
where from the open window
the fall of slow and heavy raindrops
is all that’s wanted to be heard.  

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In Vino Veritas

I shouldn’t write
when I’m drunk
on too much wine
and red,
to kill
how many feelings,
how many
emotions have
I been burying,
have I had?
(because of you),
when vitriol is
on the rise,
is at the surface,
when I have
just recently read
what you’ve
been writing
and wonder, what
excuse you might
stand before me
and give? for all
this pathetic take
on Capitalism,
no one will remember,
and no one wants
to hear, honey,
if only you weren’t
so afraid to live
a truth worth sharing.
Yeah, so,
“to in vino veritas, dear!”
and so I’ll say it,
at least just once,
before no one
else does,
“you could do
so much better
with that pen.”

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The Taste of Divinity

The word rests upon
the tongue,
as though it had been
placed there
to form some kind of
penance. And as hard
as the mind might
“try and decipher
the taste of Divinity,”
it has already
dissolved into the body
to be used as nourishment,
until another is given.

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This Place

Did I forget to say,
or did I forget
to tell you?
How unexpectedly
my heart still aches,
still bursts for you.
And perhaps it is –
this place –
where I am reminded
how you have left
these memories
of you;
in street names,
in bridges, in buildings,
and in the sharp-peaked
mountain tops
who have learned to wear
this white so well,
that I have seen and known
since childhood
until now,
my Love, who has gone
from this place
I have always loved,
and love still
just as much
as the mountain tops
who call to him,
even as I do –
to come home.

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Places

But to enter
on an afterthought,
where I am seeking
the quiet
in my head;
for those spaces
where you are not.
In conversation,
but still, I find
even in the silence
you are there
in the quiet places
where there is no
need to extract
or string
words into sentences,
but to only hear.

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Hidden

There is just me
and the sound
of the wind chimes
now that you have taken
all of the words
I loved so much
with you. All of the
words that you
kept for yourself
and somehow hidden
that still I find I want. 

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Undo

If conversation
were the way
of unraveling,
what is this thread
that ties me to you?
In all the words
that I have read,
in all the words
that I have taken,
that in me
you must reside,
and I in you.
And if we were
to pull this string,
how many words there
would we find,
as though in a game
of Scrabble?
Where every word
completes the
puzzle – once spoken.

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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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