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This (after an evening of Bernard Parmegiani, Kraftwerk, Lou Reed and Deerhunter)

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On watching someone you love, love only your body

It will be last call when his name

appears on your phone. Your fingertips

hesitate to answer, go into the bathroom

tell him to meet at your place in half an hour.

When your friends ask who you were talking to

lie to easily, say it was your roommate

go back to your beer; fade invisible.

Slip out the front door to meet your lover.

You will run home, trying as much as possible

to sober your drunken veins just to remember

how his stubble feels against your cheek.


When you open the door, he will be standing,

one hand in his pocket, the other on the door frame,

you can tell he has taken one too many shots of tequila

this is the only reason he called. He will smile,

you try not to melt like a G.I. Joe under

the magnifying glass. He does not speak,

he moves effortlessly into your home;

you have forgotten his force, every pulse

is telling you to push him away, to run.

You told yourself last time was the last time

he would control you. He presses his lips

against yours, his hand glides down your spine.

You are surprised at how weak he makes you.


He will lead you into the bedroom,

removing your clothing without strength.

You let him take you because you want him to

you know this is the closest you will ever be.

He will lick his way down your stomach.

Do not mistake this for passion.

Remind yourself this is only fun.

Your sweat mixes with his, heat rising

from his body. You can feel his heart

beat in his fingertips.  It is fast and loud,

for a moment you think he could love you.


When he ejaculates on your stomach

he will hand you a towel. Clean yourself

off with deliberate force. When you slide

your shirt back on, do not look him in the eye.

Do no ask him to stay holding you until morning.

Do not tell him he is the condom you wear

on blind dates protection from letting

anyone else touch you. Do not tell him

you stay up late at night creating worlds

where the two of you build a beautiful home.


He will leave your apartment as easily

as he entered, without a goodbye kiss.

You are the fiddle he uses to escape

his broken life. Go back to your bed.

Hold the pillow holding his cologne.

Wrap your hands around his scent.

Press the fabric close to your face.

Fall asleep to the smell of him.


In the morning do not regret what you did,

retell yourself how you could have stopped it

because you could have stopped it, because

you could have stopped it. Wash the smell

of him away in the shower, block his number


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Imagine if you could feel it, from your bones to your balls, from your soles to your ovaries or lack thereof. Imagine sharing all the feelings of all the others that you pass by, city streets or country roads. Mingling on elevators, rolling dusty tumble weeds, rising, falling, writhing to a human tide. Would you lose your mind or find it, do you think?

I do. At least, I think I feel it, sometimes. I feel a little baby's finger grasping mine across a boulevard. I fear the white woman passing by, what she might say or do from fear of me. We're both ashamed and careful.  I see but do not see the hungry body sleeping next to me. I'd cry, if I didn't find it condescending. Is it?

Maybe. Even if I tasted every tongue and open wound around me, would I know? Can a single moment tell me more that, a moment? Can I judge them from their songs, t-shirts, or stupid comments? Would it change a thing if I could show them? If I could reblog them my perspective?

Maybe. I mean, isn't every artist crazy? Writers sketch out with misshapen characters, the characters that we observe. We even try, in our own way, to give them all what they deserve. We try to make some sense out of the slopes and curves of kindness, tragedy, and conflict. Does it work?

I doubt it. It never works in person, does it? Do you ever really know a whole story? Even if you slip into every character, lick up all their pages? Wouldn't we imagine different faces, every reader, writer,  blogger and bystander? I don't think three eyes see the same colors. Still, I try it every day. 

Still, I hope and dream to find a way to speak my mind and share it out, engage your spaces.

And, yes, one day? Get paid to make this. Is that all right?

Sure. We all pay for what sustains us.

Prompt: A passionate Anonymous asked me:

One love.

Still seeking pieces to reblog and review. If you see me, why not try me? Just e-mail me.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. I could also use like, reblogs, prompts, questions, or commentary.

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Lover Mine; No. 1

If you speak to me,

Please understand this:


You have no right to know who I am. 

Anything you have to say to me is

Meant for a girl you once knew.

I am not her.


I am not the ashes, heap of ashes,

You left in your wake. I am not 

The tears you once wiped from my eyes,

I am not the ones you once cried.


I am not the one who made you 

What you are. I am not the fire

At your tongue. I am not the trophy

You once won. 


I am not the pretty broken thing,

Busted bird with a busted wing,

I am not the one who held the

Words you said. I did not share your bed.


I am not your veiled, weeping sun, and I

Am not your laughing half-moon. Yes,

We're gone. We ended too soon, but frankly

I'm not here to swoon over you. 


I am not your lover, though I loved you so,

I am the winter and I am the snow,

Beautiful and cold, I am the place you're still

Stuck; intrepid soles sinking into mud.


You may have killed me, lover mine,

But I stand here breathing, one of a kind,

And, darling, I'm back for your blood. 


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Soft rumblings of thunder

from cumulus nimbus above.

I drown myself with pillows.

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Dandelion: from the French ‘dent-de-lion’, meaning ‘Lion's Tooth’

I wrote a poem for a girl once,
penned with whiskey ink and tears because
I wanted to make Hemingway proud
if no one else.

She sat beside me
on a bench that overlooked everything,
from the tree whose shade once blanketed us
as we passed prayers between lips
to the shadows of the alleyway
that I left my heart in,
somewhere under a bag of old newspapers
and broken promises and other
stupid clichés.

She cried as she read it
and I tried my best not to
as she buried her face into my chest and
planted seeds that I swore tasted like hope
but weeds grow to look a lot more like doubt
but I thought,
at least something is growing,
knowing nothing of dandelions and
everything of adapting.

I was drunk on something far more potent
than all the vermouth in the world,
my mouth hurling metaphors from a heart
barely beating with stories carved
into forearms screaming similes
as bitter-sweet as the saccharin sting
of her name in the back of my throat,
hoping she’d just ask me one day
why I wore long sleeves in the Winter and
still shivered.

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About everything else

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Prologue - Josh's Story (working title)

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Sometimes the shallowest waters

Are the most dangerous


Knowing you can save yourself

If you only stand up


But not having the will

to stand alone

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This new house is small. It smells like maple syrup and exposed earth. Sebastian’s mother frowns when they walk through the door. Purses her lips. Quaint, she says, already missing luxuries like storage space and thick walls.
Sebastian likes his new home. In the evening he sits on the front steps with a candy cigarette in his mouth. This place is loud in ways the city never was.He likes the sound of the wind in the trees and the crickets rubbing their legs together. He likes being able to see the sunset, likes wiggling his toes in the brown soil. Likes the smell of sage and dill and wheat.

I’d die for a damn microwave, his mother says, turning the oven on. This is the fifth night in a row she has cooked a proper supper. Fish sticks and baked beans tonight. Sebastian and his mother eat in the living room, watching the local news on an old tube tv. They do not talk.
In the morning, Sebastian goes on bike rides. He can see mountains in the distance. It is hard to discern which shapes on the horizon are clouds and which are snow-capped peaks this early in the day. He thinks, maybe, he could ride his bike all the way across the plains and up to the top of the mountain. If he really tried.
The house is growing on Sebastian’s mother. We didn’t need that much room anyways, did we? she says after four weeks. It’s just you and me and my work. She has started working at the phone company in town. She is always back in time for supper.
School starts. Sebastian is introduced to children who have known each other their entire lives. They ask him a lot of questions. What was the city like? Does he like to play baseball? Did he ever see a homeless person? What does he think of the country? Does he miss the city?
No, he says, but I miss my father.
On the first day of school, Sebastian’s mother comes home early. I hope you had fun at school, she says during supper. She listens to him talk. Later that night she sits on his bed, watching his sleepy breathing. Rise, fall. Rise, fall. Sometimes, she says, I miss him too.