1
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And the ghosts come marching in

Lately, there has been an influx
to the number of times
I have thought about you
in between days--

even at a more crucial time
when I try to forget
the little things that
made me write
pseudo-vignettes before.

        I. Silence was her weapon;
           one that broke my armor
           into shattered steel.

       II. And I am no smith.
     
      III.I am but a battered man.

      IV. Just a battered man.

Memory must be
a powerful thing--
to make your remember
without you noticing
it open the backdoor

letting the ghosts march in;
a number I am helplessly part of.

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intimate connection (revised)

Lying beneath me,
we share our bodies
with each other.

Reaching up
and running your fingers
through my beard;
to me that is more intimate
than even the first time
you took me inside.

The connection made between
your hands and my face
is deeper than I can penetrate
you or your soul.

When our eyes lock,
in that moment,
we are
one.

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5 0 5

she was dickinson

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0
1 0 1

Confidence...

Ever wish you could
Walk away
Just after 
That first great impression,
Know when to stop
After you've told
The perfect punch line,
Realize when is
The ideal moment
To lean into a kiss,
When to go all in
On the hand
You've been played?
Ever wish you could
Time things just right,
For once be in control
Of falling in love,
Know for sure
Hands down
You've found
The right one,
Know for a fact 
That when the chips are down
Things will look up soon,
Lie back in certainty
That the tide
Will come back in,
And you'll ride out proud
On all that you've accomplished?
Some say it's just confidence
Totally feasible and plausible,
But what about the rest of us?
APAD13 - 062

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Primal Imitation

 The rough touch of bark rasps calloused palms,

splits skin, lets the moss-spores in,

mingling life in my palms as I ascend

bending branches, shifting gaps in the canopy,

sparking entropy in a shower of not-yet dead leaves

aborted in my progress.

Belated childhood buds in comatose limbs

revived in reconnection to their purpose

decided by millennia of death now damned.



Preserved in tins and glass we find fruits

twisted to our ends from their own process:

countless lives denied in our dominion.

I discover sibling seeds swinging on tenuous tendons

aching to emancipate their way to new life.

We sway together, riding vibrating waves

of consequence aligning lives on a global scale:

relations of reactions overreaching boundaries of being,

existential intricacies insinuating my internment

coming before I can breach the canopy and breathe:

Open, exposed to the forces of wind and sun.

 

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What to make of it all

I missed the sunflowers and tangerine,
The who’s, what’s and why’s of the sky at dawn
For I chose, not the morning, but the dreaming of night,
And wondered what to make of it all

Walk miles in the day for the heart to beat
Sometimes feeling nothing but small
But I wonder a lot of the weight on my feet
And about what to make of it all

Love is far from the only fancy I’ve known
But the hardest of things to let fall
A butterfly’s life, but a song for a day . . .
Would a weight be lifted if I knew the same . . .
No time for distractions, and no time to waste
Or to wonder what to make of it all

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5# I am

I'm lots of things, 
still I'm nothing.

 

I'm wide awake,
still i'm tired.

 

I am calm,
yet i'm vigorous.

 

I'm alive,
still I will die.

 

I am pro, 
yet i'm contra. 

 

I'm nothing more,
then in between... 






 

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Polythene Ham

Well you should see Polythene Ham
It’s so good-looking when it’s smothered in jam
Well you should try it in gravy it’ll drive your taste buds crazy
Yes you should see Polythene Ham
Yeah, yeah, yeah

Get a dose of it in slices and strips
It sizzle-frizzles when it’s juicy it drips
Well it’s the kind of ham that makes the “News of the Pan”
Yes you could say it tastes the best served with chips
Yeah, yeah, yeah

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Salvation in Recourses

Here is our fate laid out by a few
scattered cars on flooded streets

like constellations on a sea of purple:

we abhor this night to come. The blackness
of the water guarantees dirt to come
inside of our leather shoes—carcass
of roaches, a few jagged little pebbles,
and some other things we knew
would sting like a hornet’s.

The cacophony of buzzing vehicles
vehemently terrifies our already earthquake
shaken bodies, speeds like lightning cracking
the sky terrifies. The earth, too, is
cracking

open—

like our palms does when we throw a tsunami
wave of asking for salvation. We abhor the

coming of the night—the freezing
of tendons and the rot inside
of our shoes(—and the rot
of the shoes themselves.)

I am here, forming thoughts
into constellations which have blown
fast

like the wind had pushed these
vehicles from our eyes.

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Progression

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