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Read and Recite.Poetry is not
pushed from the mouth
like a race
is the sound of the mind
stripping its gears, measured
by the opening
of a cranial trap door.
a single drop
in an ocean of pomegranate juice
(the refined palette
tastes the salt) --
Who knew words
Shipping Out.His eyes water, but never spill over.
My chest heaves, but never bursts.
The last time we say "I love you,"
is the time he says it first.
Down, But Not OutFeel free to forget
that which festers in places only reachable by trespass.
There is so little point to counting your blessings
when in dreaming you revel in things that have passed beyond resurrection
and into personal history.
And they have always loved "that story";
Even in a drunken stuper she remembers.
And in sleep...
beneath the turbid waters of a dark ocean the wounds are as fresh --
as tender and as bloodied --
as they were before the salt,
five years buried...
I wonder all the time if you remember it like I do.
Fondly, if with thorns.
But I miss that touch.
I miss the violence
of your selective intimacy.
You were so patient when I was constantly chewing bitter roots
that resolved themselves to contact that you only gently discouraged,
never a harsh word traded in the summer darkness.
It's been years since you've been home.
And you can't lie anymore, can't cover up what I know has been
the reason for your absence...
You were a different person here.
A boy with changing eyes a
there is no shame
in counting crows on bedposts.
Maybe if I had laughed you would
drum on windows
like rain across shutters:
somebody knew, and nobody
man is a lake
and woman a river:
I knew the salt. The ocean froze
we told ourselves
was nothing to the distance.
It crushes dreams like so many
God knows we tried.
But when that morning comes
there will be no brackish streams. No;
Spurned.I've tried to be as impartial as possible.
But today I stopped you and spoke to you and tried to tell you without really telling you that I've really, really missed you
against my better judgement...
I haven't spoken before now out of fear that I'd make things worse for you
salt on the wound and all that...
But when I turned to go, our bodies perpendicular, instead of turning to pull me in you waved
and kept on walking.
I wonder if you're enjoying
the curvature of her back.
The spine, a row of ossified crowns
crowded and curved around that defining neural superhighway;
that extension cord,
adventurously connecting the visceral
to the peripheral.
The horseshoe crab vertebrae
scuttle to break through skin at your touch;
a defining shiver.
I see your hands
around the rounded hills of her shoulders.
Scapulae jutting out with the extremity of the bend,
like a chicken's wings.
And the bands of these dorsal muscles
stand up like wings,
cast shadows in the dimples of the pelvis that she lifts;
that will fold out
in the culmination of her pleasure
slide down that gentle grain to pin
where mine once were tied.
More gentle, in your roughness.
in your marauded gifts.
Like Puzzle PiecesYou have nothing to fear.
Feral remnants of doubt and shame have sought shelter with the lateness of the hour
But this is not the widest silence.
There have been longer stretches of time where we could have claimed relational death,
degeneration of connector cells and the cessation of contact,
but you figured moving forward could mean looking backwards...
So you threw sweet words across screens.
Pressed lonely doubts through invisible tubes.
Threatened to use the airwaves, but retracted.
where are your words now?
in the cellar
beneath the stairs.
Rhythmically pound sand in an attempt to beat away my half-composed versions of the future.
slather yourself in honey and climb a peach tree.
I can only hurt
the parts of you that I can see
and so far I've seen nothing, in comparison.
It's not my fault
that I'm an expert
at redirecting blood flow.
(You give up a few things
to make a relationship survive...)
Make The Bed.Beds get bigger in the absence of words.
Things we thought we understood become jumbled.
Suddenly, the world is out of focus.
Remove the padding.
Deconstruct on a chemical level.
Love is --
Far above the highway,
gunpowder combusts and rains down on familiar ground.
I try to forget what we left tucked between the hills,
what we buried in the pine needles behind his house.
You blend together:
innumerable saturdays wrapped in the heat and the dark
where breath escaped between rupturing larynges;
an unfinished, unplanned, uncertain six hour road trip to rapture that lies dormant,
somewhere north of here in hay bales,
or hidden in the mountains.
Silence defines nothing.
and fill the mattress.
and let me forget.
I wake up from my dreams smiling
Because I can feel your arms around me
Then I remember...
I wonder if you think about me too
If you miss talking and laughing with me
Holding me close and protecting me
But maybe that's selfish of me to think
Do specific songs you hear on the radio
Make you tear up? Remind you of when we
Were happy and things were going well?
I wonder what you feel when you hear my name
Or when you see a car that looks like mine
Does your stomach drop?
Do you use your depression as an excuse
To hide that how you feel is because of how hurt
You are like I do? Too afraid to admit that you
Let someone close enough to destroy you?
Maybe I am the one who is perfect for you
And that scares the hell out of you.
Or maybe I'm just fooling myself.
The False HeroI lean back against the door
As I watch him take a deep breath
For a moment or two it looks like he isn't sure anymore
But soon enough he steadies his breath
I have known for a long time I'd live to see this day -
The day I send him off to war
As a child, he kept telling me about how he wanted to become a "hero", like the ones in all of those glorious stories.
But as he grew up, he found out that those kinds of "heroes" didn't really exist.
Yet, he foolishly did not give up
He still wanted to be a "hero"
Instead of being someones knight in shining armor
He settled with being some nations` puppet solider.
I couldn't help but think he was out of his mind
But looking into his eyes I saw a hardened resolve
A resolve which could only lead him down a dark road
Going to war meant protecting some people, while killing others
Whether it be right or wrong...
Then again, that to him was the definition of a "hero"
For it, he would do what needed to be done
Still, he was not doing it for any man or
Playing AngelYou stare up at a strong, neutral being.
A being who cannot help but love without condition.
Your pure human tears run down your cheeks,
Splattering onto the cold stone floor on which you kneel.
She allows you to cling to her skirts,
Bury your face in them and sob.
She promises to take care of you.
She is only playing Angel.
Inside she breaks herself to show care in her eyes,
For those who demand it from her,
Who think she is safety.
No one could imagine she could hurt.
You think she is the strongest you have seen.
Her love is without condition.
She is forever generous.
She is only playing your Angel.
In secret, her heart lies in pieces.
Her love is little given to those who seek comfort.
Though her care isn't truly there.
Angel is all she plays for you.
These Three WordsShe hears the words
But cannot accept them
That cherubic face
Those pearly eyes
So insecure of the blind truth
Why she can't see it, I wonder
I'm certain everyone else can
The mirror on her wall must lie
Jealous to the point of treachery
For how could it compare?
To that shining face, that flowing hair?
I whisper those three words
So that she may not doubt her senses
I whisper them so that she may know
I whisper them
And the blood thuds in her ears
What did he say?
It must not be true!
Each syllable rolls off my tongue
Sweet and innocent
As the morning dew
On a blade of grass
I savor them
As a man dying of thirst
Savors every last drop
As a man dying of hunger
Savors every last morsel
As a man struggling for air
Savors every last wisp
As a man clinging to life
May savor each passing second
I savor them to beckon the truth
To wash away the doubt
To show my belief
And as I speak
I know what I say to be true
My brain clicks into pl
TerminalYour memories lean against my doorframe
And I wonder what the turnaround is
For an injury such as mine
The ghost whispers
That's when I slide down the hall
Ragged jagged pillars of salt
Down the wall
Still I can't shake your lethal aura
Your pretty plague
Settles like dust
In the corner of perpetual tyranny
Where I'm bleeding and choking
Wounds that won't heal
Because it's terminal
The memories told me so
Stepping StonesWe were both hurt, you and I
Sadly...by each other
(though I know I'm the one who started it)
You were the one who built the bridges I burned.
I guess I never realized they weren't just mine.
There is a river the size of the world between us
but it isn't deep.
I've crossed it in my mind a thousand times
when all I needed to do was cross it in reality just once.
When I pushed you away,
I saw how strong you were on your own.
in a way that I could never be strong.
And it scared me.
Why would someone as strong as you
need a weak thing like me?
And I see you on your peak as I stand on my own.
My heart aches every time I look at you.
It has since the moment I burned your last bridge.
You know me and admitting when I'm wrong.
You each know different parts of me
Both full of truths and
Dear YouDear you,
The person I used to know.
I can't tell you how many times you stroll through my mind
leaving memories of younger days
Sometimes happier days
Sometimes days of sadness or anger
but always days of friendship, one way or another, in your wake.
Like a breadcrumb trail amidst a sea of ravens.
And I miss you even though I pretend I don't.
Black and white pictures make me think of you
because you were never so clear.
Just when I thought I had you figured out
You'd introduce a whole new spectrum.
We both grew up
Our paths leading us places we never imagined.
And all the things we said we'd be together
were put by the wayside...
by you and me both.
This is me.
A billion hypocritical brush strokes across the canvas
that once was us.
I've never seen myself more clearly
than I did the day I washed your colors away.
I know I pushed you away.
I seem to have quite the knack for it.
And a trillion excuses, or lies, or
I made a promise to myself that I would never
let you control my thoughts again.
I can't help but think of you.
I told you that I'd be strong enough
to keep these acid tears at bay.
I am a mess of mascara and eyeliner.
I thought I was strong
I thought my heart had finally healed
I thought you didn't matter anymore.
I am wrong.
I erased the memory of those eyes
that always made me melt.
my frosty resolve cracked.
I vowed not to wonder
if you ever think of me anymore.
not knowing will be the death of me.
I thought I could take on the world.
I thought I could stand on my own two feet.
I thought I was finally done missing you.
I am wrong.
Karma.The truth is
I have hoarded your words.
Made haphazard stacks on on the stairs,
on the grand piano
so I would not forget as well
or as thoroughly
as you have.
For now, new beds play host to the faded pages
of a notebook, the one I used to write letters to you
that I never sent, that spent so many years under the pillows.
Washed in the laundry, the ink leaves black stains on white sheets,
determined to exist,
There are ghosts beyond the shadow of the fabric.
In that place where poetry comes from,
they're counting the threads of our histories.
They intersected, I know they did:
You read it.
I wrote it down.
Flames lick the edges of the bound volume.
than leather --
But you knew that.
It burns faster.
I suppose you knew that too.
Twenty-three years before the crippling of Crown Prince James III
He was fourteen and she was probably aged about the same, give or take a few years. It had been an hour since he'd met her.
He hated her already.
She scowled behind him and likely shared the sentiment as they scampered up the hillside in a desperate attempt to escape the roaring mob that seemed to be growing perpetually larger and coming ever-closer. Gabriel would have liked to say that it was all her fault he was in this situation, though it was his careless nicking ofwhat was it? A chicken that started the first old woman running, but how was he supposed to know that she'd stumble and fall and everyone else would think he'd assaulted her?
He hadn't. He'd taken the chicken, snapped its neck and run, because he hadn't eaten meat in weeks and he was starting to feel the affects on his already weak limbs.
This is what happens, he thought. This is what happens when you live like th
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