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Like...

I liked you
Yesterday,
I'll like you
Tomorrow,
I like you
Today,
I'll like you
Day after day
Even after every 
Sundae,
I'll like you
From every
New year
Through
Every leap year,
From time
To time
I'll keep 
Liking you,
Because hey,
What's not to like
About you?
I like you
Even if you don't 
Like yourself,
I like you
Even if you don't
Like me,
But I really really
Love you...
APAD13 - 109 © okpoet

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Waltz...

You and I
May try 
And dance together,
But she,
She tangos
With my heart,
Dangerous steps between
My love and her eyes
Aggressively 
Entwined souls
Pushing and pulling,
Who will give 
And what will break,
The subtlety of her
Nuclear bombs
Going off in my mind,
All the minutes play
In rapid succession
How I would have approached her
And gracefully swept
Her away to a world
Dreamt between
Our exchange;
Lurid lucid waltz
That you and I;
Could only sway to...
APAD13 - 073

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codeine and contac ( are you Syriaous? )

*

the abstractions and distractions 

have been swept into the corner pocket

of the nine-ball, role call and response docket

*

tunes are playing for the rocketed

hemlocked recipes not fit for humans

filed under “you don’t get to tune in”

at the feet of the cosmic seat, where

flutes are piffling and trumpets bleating, 

men-o’-war work-steadily meeting and competing

for that which should bear no repeating

*

whipping up their custards of humble pie

served to diners in greasy dens  

who didn’t pass the muster, why? 

because our heads are still reined-in

from saviors singing and phrases pinging

though head spaces of mental cases of incremental

changlings, their party sickles dangling across the board 

walking it through to attain the genuine article

*

at any cost, cutting or head butting; we’ll have to 

resign to be assigned a reservation at the testing

station, where you wait and cogitate on your role

as the cog-au-vin plate, served daily by the billions,

twerking, slaving at the privilege of ‘the millioned’

collecting, disrespecting, self-protecting, world-neglecting,

claiming godhood while genuflecting, to baal-istical statistics

and paramilitary mystics in lipsticks

*

when will we come to realize and see the writing on the 

wall-eyed wally of the airwaves of weebling wobblng people 

falling down blind alleyways like sheeple,

going where you lead em, just as long as they think you’ll feed em 

into the slaughterhousing five-point a’gon and on and on and on, 

beat don’t stop til they say it’s done, but the battles seem to go on and on

maybe cause they can’t be won - dimensional, two-dimensional, 

three-dimensional four, so sick and tired of all mention of

a sick and tiring war…

*

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This I (redraft)

This I,

 

this chemical chimera,

this sugar-headed slave

of bright suggestion,

foams sherbet at the gills,

saliva now syrup,

saturated, crystalline.

 

The walls are sticky

with finger-painted feather imitations,

Rachis reaching floor to ceiling

so every Barb stands out

as delineated by Darwin

now haloed in halogen buzz.

 

Old as love,

when first quill broke scales

to suggest a sweeter prospect

and snarls became songs.

This I traces only the Afterfeather

In a hope of plumage of its own

 

And a sweetness not so fleeting.

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The Sessions

II.
Empty hands,
downturned
reflecting pupils,
rote-learned-

III.
Corneas shield entropy,
vanguarding absentia

I.
lashes fend
cheekbones bend
losses rend

IV.
lovers tend
bruises mend
nightmares end

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on gods and spiders

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Where Do the Ducks Go?

A young man once asked

a cab driver in a troubled voice,

“Where do the ducks go

in the wintertime?”

 

Call me ignorant.

Call me out on my simplicity,

but similar thoughts have crossed my mind.

 

You shake your head at me,

rolling your stormy blue eyes.

You tell me they fly south

just like the robins and the geese.

 

But, as you sit there

with a smug smile pursed on your lips,

I can’t help but wonder

about the last one to hatch--

the runt of the bunch that struggled

to free himself from his warm white enclosure.

 

I can’t help but think

of the yellow ball of fluff

that still waddles behind his mother,

watching wide-eyed from the ground

while his brothers take off into the horizon.

 

Where do the ducks go

when the pond freezes over?

 

Where do we go when

the icy wind is at our faces,

and we’re not sure if we can fly? 

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A letter to my hands

I know I taught you to hold on everything that disappears, too tightly.

I convinced you each time that things would be different.

But, I also taught you that you had fire in your fingertips and fight in your fists.

I taught you that no matter how much it would hurt you couldn't give up.
Nothing that would be worth it would come easy.

Sometimes you have to learn that you have to hold on in order to teach others that letting go is the easy way out.

I never wanted you to be the hand that let's go. I taught you to fight.



I fear you're letting me go.

I remember the days when I would sketch you over
and over
and over
again.
I followed your angles like the path home.

I fear, I sketched you to remember your glory.



Together we have learned to heal. Your touch, my heart.

We've been the security for small hands searching for the hand that will never let go. The drier of tears. The creator of visual representations of all we see. The writer of words gone unspoken. The lover who cherished touching his body like the gilded treasures it possessed. The dancing fingertips playing silent music.

You have been my connection to the world. You allow me to experience my feelings in the flesh. You are the past, the present and
I need you to be the future.

I know I taught you to hold on too tightly. I know these days your hold is growing tired.

Don't let go. I promise I will never let you hold to anything I know will disappear any longer. I promise to take more care to recognize what you need. I promise to not push you to far. I promise to never let go. So please, don't let go.

We have tears to dry. Lips to touch. Small hands to hold. New places to experience through our fingertips. Rain droplets to collect in our palms. Skin to caress like the welcoming light of  the moon on water.

We have a hands to find that will never let go of ours. So please, don't let go.

I taught you to fight. I taught you to fight with love and commitment. So please, don't let go.

Love,

Your heart

-Melanie Hamblin

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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

again.