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Eversoeager and without thought

I try to wake from my dream

of pain and pity

it's april 19th 

twothousandthriteen.

 

If light was an instrument

and you had enough fingers, 

you would play it like that. 

 

Next to self-pity

there's no warm body

for me to nest in. 

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Angled Angles

I see beauty reflected

Dancing back to my face

From where you stand.


She sees church bell laughter;

Her eyes gleam red in jealousy

You eloquence isn’t to be matched.


He sees only a toy;

Something to play with;

Someone to touch.


Your mother sighs;

She sees a younger her

with less potential, not trying.


Your Father smiles genuinely;

Dictionary beauty dances

In her prom dress before him


The mirror whispers;

Ugly, hopeless, alone,

Scars, tears, make up smeared


Your pride leaks from every crevice

When you conversate with reflections

But, I plead; step to the window


You are immaculate; alive

Beautiful from every perspective

But that which you see;


Mirrors lie

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digressed

*

…working on

the most profound poem 

i think i’ve ever produced;

it literally flowed in a continuous stream

into my mind

line by line 

*

all i needed to do

was to put it down as I heard it 

making only minimal edits

it was that good

*

it traced the roots of literature

and the socio-political milieu

from which it evolved

*

astutely describing

and explaining 

our present levels of existence 

with all of its complexities and nuance

while proscribing 

practical, universal antidotes

to our cultural and moral malaise

in an amusing, accessible, but serious tone

*

incorporating an enhanced version

of our English language

melding sonic and holographic elements

only just revealed

by an unnamed research lab

from a covertly-funded consortium 

of linguists, engineers and philosophers

which promised to totally transform 

the way in which 

we all could communicate - telepathically -

with each other

in the future.

*

so I sat down

with my ream of paper

and newly purchased pens

in a quiet, well-illimunated space

on a herman miller limited edition chair

at an ergonomically optimized desk

and I began frantically writing

this poem, my opus…

*

and I digressed -

*

and wrote THIS one instead,

documenting

the staggering tragedy

of the immense,

once-in-a-lifetime opportunity

i just missed.

*

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they were strangers (V)

fire spreads through the
forest in his skin
a chemical intoxication;
left so high and dry
he drowned the things
he could never say
in needles and late nights

he loved Her so much
and the She who wasn’t yet
but Her! she loved the game;
the up, the down, the no-in-between
passion held by taut wire:
when he fell, she rose
and that was how she liked it


roll the dice

he is down

gun kissed temple

smile hidden in Her frown,

“Pull it.”


so the She who wasn’t yet
came to be alone

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Tonight, she gave herself to him.

She hung her doubts by the doorway
on hooks designed for winter coats.
She placed her fears in the dish
where the keys made their home.
She kicked her consternation into the corner
where the boots gathered in marching formation.
Whether she was ready or not
she would give herself to him.
her heart, her love, her body.
She knew what he wanted
and no was never an option
nor could she bring herself
to deny his primal need.
Tonight he will disrobe her
shake away her insecurities.
Fold them neatly, methodically
and stack them in the chair by the bed.
Tonight he will trace her outline
chase away apprehension on fingertips
never rushed, always lightly
slowly, allowing her to come to grips.

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Definitions the English Language has no words for - Found Poem

The act of taking objects one desires

from the house of a friend

by gradually borrowing all of them.

 

A joke so poorly told and so unfunny

that one cannot help but laugh

 

To go outside to check if anyone is coming.

 

The wordless yet meaningful look

shared by two people who desire

to initiate something, but are both

reluctant to start.

 

The act of hesitating while introducing someone

because you’ve forgotten their name.

 

The feeling of pleasure

derived by seeing another’s misfortune.

 

A relationship by fate or destiny.

This is a complex concept.

It draws on principles of predetermination,

which dictate relationships, encounters

and affinities, mostly among lovers and friends.

 

The act of tenderly running

your fingers through someone’s hair.

 

The happiness of meeting again

after a long time.

 

A way of living that focuses

on finding beauty within the imperfections of life

and accepting peacefully the natural cycle of growth and decay.

 

A person who is willing to forgive

abuse the first time; tolerate it

the second time, but never a third time.

 

The heart-wrenching pain

of wanting someone you can’t have.

 

The sense upon first meeting a person

that the two of you are going to fall into love.

 

A declaration of one’s hope

that they’ll die before another person,

because of how difficult it would be

to live without them.

 

The state of agony and torment

created by the sudden sight of one’s own misery.

 

The euphoria you experience

when you’re first falling in love.

 

The sensation of great spiritual anguish,

often without any specific cause. 

A dull ache of the soul, a longing

with nothing to long for, a sick pining,

a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. 

The desire for somebody of something specific,

nostalgia, love-sickness.

 

The feeling of longing for someone

you love and is lost. A vague and constant

desire for something that does not

and probably cannot exist.

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undone

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The Bathory Witch's Prayer

Twenty years between us my love, twenty years

And twenty prayers a day I spoke to our Father.

He answered with a letter and a thousand virgins.

Now I know a bath in their blood is better than betrayal.

Let the flies sing my litany and Libitina be my Saint;

She alone baptized me with the spells of the wicked

And I rose from the muddy water to fertile

The garden of beasts and beauties.

 

I want what the body wants; what the soil

Fed us in the beginning. From the dirt to the flesh,

And to the blood and back, the Ladies of the Limbs

Are sacrificed to the service of my Vestal Virgin.

Now we will be sisters in eternity and Lilith

Shall rapture us unto the gates of fire.

 

Twenty years between us my love, twenty years

And twenty ways shall I purify and penetrate you

With Holy Hands and the sins of a Serpent.

Your love became daggers and now they are kin, because

The Prophet was wrong and the Fallen are good.

Those screams from hell are the moans of pleasure

As we revel in the vengeance to come.

 

Though the stones may cover me now and the light

Will torture my eyes with absence, remember my love

The twenty years between us as the sisters

Of the Vestal Virgin ignite you with eternal kisses.

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Shanty

Skeletal awnings,

Beneath a fierce sky

That glares down

On this brittle-leaf town,

Where she made

Bright ornaments from bottlecaps,

Threatening to skitter away

At the wind’s first word.

 

Acrid spell of cleansing,

Forgotten lingering vowels,

That creeps into the misremembered

Song she sang as she went about

Those bustling daily echoes.

 

Reclaimed detritus,

Every last piece of this place,

That sailed here

From some long-rusted purpose

Here a roof;

Now a home,

When we found a prosthesis

For the dinner table’s wobble.

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Fearless

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. –Marianne Williamson

 

Five years old on a cool September morning. Combed hair, pressed pants, and a backpack yet to be unzipped. The giant, yellow future rolls to a stop and opens its doors in front of those saucer-sized sapphire eyes. This is it. A deep breath, a small wave, and stepping up. 

A dark room illuminated by the flashing brightness of a meaningless film. The only things that matter are your arm around her shoulders, the synchronized rising and falling of chests, and that she doesn’t notice your sweaty palms. She looks up at you. This is it. A deep breath, closed eyes, and leaning in.

An immaculate hospital room beeping to the beat of his failing heart. His eyes swim as he claps you on the shoulder and musters up the best show of a smile he can. You grab his hand as the mountains of heartbeat become prairie. This is it. A deep breath, a tear, and letting go.  

 

I dream of fearless.
I stumble along paths barely lit.

I know headlights don’t reveal much when you’re standing still
but forward motion leaves too much up to Fate,
and she can’t be trusted with anything.
I barricade my heartbeat so when it quickens, no one sees it
Sweat is a sign of defeat
Trembling is for the
weak. Weak. Weak.
It haunts me in my sleep.
They say there is nothing to fear but fear itself.
Well, then I call “abandonment” fear
and I call “failure” fear
and “the future,” “moving on,” and “opening up” fear.

But truth be told,


I am embarrassed by my burden.
My albatross doesn’t look heavy to those who don’t carry it.
He isn’t the first kiss or the last goodbye,
but rather a blank sheet of paper.

In fearless, it’s not “fear” I worry about.
It’s less.
Less than perfect, less than satisfactory, less than enough.
That alligator’s mouth of < feeds on my confidence
or whatever you call what I have left of it.

They say you aren’t afraid of the dark, but rather, what’s in it.
I’m not afraid of the silence, but rather, what it isn’t.
Even prayer is a one sided conversation.

I fear what happens when I
speak too loudly
write too quickly
breathe too deeply
see too much
cry too often.
We all do.


If it’s our light, not our darkness, that frightens us
what happens when the light shows us too much?
Images forever burned on our corneas,
scratched into our brain matter,
branded on our souls.
The light shows too many scars
while in the darkness, we can pretend they’re constellations.
I am afraid of no longer being afraid.

The road to courage whispers,
“Step up, Lean in, Let go.”
All we have to do is listen.