Monthly Archives: May 2018

Thought Process

In this pulling apart
of thoughts or processes,
or of how thoughts
are processed,
in selecting or deselecting,
in discarding or keeping,
or possibly even salvaging.
Perhaps in the upheaval
what one finds
is what’s needed,
what serves them,
or what doesn’t,
what works, or what’s broken,
in this whittling down,
in this necessary constant,
for all of the why’s,
or for all of the reasons,
in the questioning of oneself.

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String

This stringing of words,
where each seems to fall
like a bead,
where I have lost count
and am uncertain
as to how much longer
the string. And true, I am
tired of counting, and tired
of how few words
do in fact, come back to me,
and how few I know
that never will; in all of this;
unchanging saying, would
make me but a fool to believe
how this, how could this?
ever amount to anything
more than what it is? but string.

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You and I

I go back
to the words,
rewrite, rehash,
and I don’t know
how many
or why the
compulsion.
The same way
I go back
to the completion
of a language,
and every word
I might find
in-between or
on the margins
of you and I.
Always searching,
for that place
where we are
wrapped together
between who knows
how many pages,
where yes,
all words
would fall
like rain
around us.
And so I ask myself,
and you,
the question;
why
this constant want
for the sound
of falling?

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Find A Way

Find out, or find a way
to put me beneath,
to feel how soft the flesh,
how sweet the taste,
and how it would sound
when I say your name.
So find out, or find a way
how we can finally be,
when as lovers we’ll have
what we’ve always craved,
Darling, find a way – to me.
 

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By Heart

To wait, until arms grow weak enough,
until they are able to pull me into embrace,
to hold me, until eyes lose all their sight
and there is no more vision, so that the
fingertips must read the braille upon the body
opened like a beloved book the mind has studied,
until all such words are placed to memory
and known by heart.

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A Momentary Lapse

How can one leave somewhere
they’ve never been?
And how can a conversation end
that’s never began?
When in the opening statement,
one feels and is so moved
as is to abandon
all possible disappointment
in a momentary lapse,
when we find ourselves face to face.
And it was there, wasn’t it?
that all words failed us.
And in what disbelief my eyes
met yours – and thrice! The first time,
in a sea of faces, the second,
face to face, and the third, in a
rearview mirror looking backwards.

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The Fiction In My Head

I read so many things
simply because they’re beautiful,
and follow words as though they are a trail
I am uncertain where it leads.
I have thought to write you letters.
I have often thought you are
the fiction in my head, and the make-believe.
I am always writing, though to whom
I have never written for fear
of how disjointed my thoughts can be;
a broken fragment, a simple but incomplete
idea, but the thought of you was still lovely.
Like a dream, where the trail took me,
where I meandered through forests,
then clearings, to stop only occasionally
to admire the untamability of all these
wild things. I had no control over,
never did, and never will,
where the words grew in the shadowy underbrush,
as though ferns, green and lush,
and in the clearings, as all flowers do
and are in love with the sun.
And it was here I have always been caught;
between lightness and dark,
and yet this, you always knew. 

 

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Consummate

How few words
to describe desire/want.
Where the soul is carried
down the river
rapids it floats, and bobs
and gasps for air
and wonders
“when will the river become
the placid calm?”
When all such desire/want
can finally drown.  

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Asleep

This slow novocaine,
it starts to wear off,
as well as the fiction
I made him into.
Like a slow and
lingering read
he’s been, like a book
you don’t want to
put down and yet,
every time you do,
you find yourself,
again and again,
coming back to it.
Perhaps, for something
you missed, or
something you needed
to somehow rethink
or reprocess.
Like how the lip
and the tongue
start to regain
feeling like
you’ve been asleep,
until the blood pools in
to re-awaken,
all the senses you
thought were dead –
but only deadened. 

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Mirror

There have been so many words
I have started, have stopped,
erased or completed, to only
file away. So many words
I had left there in the silence,
unable to share, to give away,
that part of myself, that I kept
so guarded, that part of myself
I wanted no one to see – in his eyes
was my own reflection. 

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Stop The Reel

How so many moments
become like so many others
except for the few,
when the reel clicks and catches
till the frame burns into view
so the mind will remember.

Was it the way he looked
or the way he stuttered?
In a momentary lapse of a
continuous thought,
with words rehearsed,
when the film, it broke,
is when all such moments
are put to canon.

For a sea of faces
we travel through
for the one in constant,
“who will burn the frame,
who will stop the reel?”

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The Beauty of Language

What play on words
“might we copulate?”
to find ourselves
within/without,
all these sentences,
all these paragraphs,
that have fed into
how many pages?
how many inkwells,
might be weighed,
and might be measured
to count,
how many words
we’ve eaten
of each other.
So yes, if you like,
kiss me all over,
again and again!
until you find
all the new words
you haven’t yet read,
or yet, come to understand
how it is we both live
amongst and within,
this; the beauty of language.

 

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About You

What sort of devil
have you become?
For what matters
is not what the eye sees
except for the eye
inside you; third, and
from the sun
and still unopened,
where round and round
the words orbit.
So maybe you are
a moon and I, the planet
who sees you, always,
whether in light or
whether in darkness,
but despite the face,
it never changes;
how I feel – about you. 

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One Night

But there are still more
rooms for lies. Where
words alone cannot
suffice, unless
pronounced with kisses,
that fall upon such faces,
to look within such eyes,
one night, one night, one night.

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Sing

As though every word
were a jewel,
hand selected,
strung together,
as though a necklace,
constructed to make
a sentence – sing.

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How He Sounded

I was in my thirties
the first time,
I read the words,
I held the book,
I heard the voice,
and as I read,
the words,
they somehow
managed
to wrap themselves
around me,
entered my
bloodstream,
until embedded
in my DNA,
took root there
while I dreamt
upon a lake
amongst
the mountains,
and then I gave
the words away,
and I forgot for awhile,
about the voice
I had read there
upon the pages,
until I heard
the voice again,
but this time,
it was as if
my own blood
betrayed me,
and how, ever since,
I have tried,
but failed to forget
how he sounded.

 

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Another Syllable

How much time
has been wasted
while wanting
to discover
what I don’t yet know,
and not wanting
to wait,
for what I am sure,
if I did,
would come to me
in variables
and degrees
of words, when I
have already,
said them all,
read them all,
to not waste
another syllable,
to not wait
while time
continues
to thieve away,
but instead,
to take and taste
what I have
always wanted,
without speech
or saying
without utterance,
and with immediacy,
would know.

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All People

You and I,
we were undoing
since the very
beginning,
you and I,
we were always
unraveling,
bearing at the
very nerve
of the unbearable,
you, always
dying on
the inside,
and I, unable
to bear
who you were
on the outside;
too different,
we were,
to ever amount
to just one,
with so many
innumerables
of you,
who could never
seem to reconcile
the face
with the mask,
and the heart
with the ego,
and how, out of
all people,
I knew;
the all of you,
I knew.

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Adieu

The point is mute,
and for all the
same reasons
I stopped reading,
stopped listening,
stopped caring,
tired of the static
off the same record
and now, once again,
at the end, have come
to the same
sorry conclusion;
that you can,
but will never change.

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Whispering Pines

In the sound of the
whispering pines
you have my ear,
here, in the timber
that leans and aches,
as the wind comes
down off of the mountains,
in all this soil I too
grew in, like the trees
who quietly listen; I hear.

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