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Kaleidoscope

 

equivocate illusion

in vision's luminosity

shifting sand of pattern

 

maybe life

 

colour changes hue

commencing red to blue

blind eyes begin

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Anthrópinos Biblio

You were the novel I had 
somewhere on my book shelf
(i never read you)  

the one I wanted my arms
to wrap around some day.
(I never held you) 

I wanted to feel the weight 
of your spine
(how heavy was your cross?) 

to let your words 
send shivers 
down mine.
(tell me how hard you fought.) 

I wanted to see how 
your sleeve 
caught the sun’s rays
(I didn't see you at all) 

in a hot-as-an-oven July,
on a warm-as-ever August day.

I wanted to crash 
into your world,
and crawl beneath its sky.
(I should have) 

Oh but how I hate spoilers,
don’t we all?

I hate them.

I hated the finding out;
(life cheats us all)  

I hated the shapes my mouth made.

Saturdays hurt now.

October smarts my tongue,
it’s too cold.

I was told 
that you were
(too cold) 

because
like oral tradition,
your 
circulation
stopped

Fuck ‘the end’ and 
all the ‘never agains’
I will always 
love y—

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I have a secret to tell you

I have had so many houses,

So many different views outside my window.

I am always

Packing up boxes, and

Unpacking clothes, I

Only own what I can fit

In a suitcase.

I have always looked for back doors,

Emergency exits, fire escapes,

In case I wear out my welcome, or

Linger too long

In one place.

I think if you say Goodbye enough times it starts to become a lifestyle. 

And those two syllables taste like cigarette smoke coming from my mouth,

But no matter how many faces I slam the door on,

Or plane tickets I buy,

Or miles I put between us,

I carry your name etched into the soles of my feet, and I want you to know - 

I don't necessarily need to make a home if I don't have one.

If a house is 30 years of thin walls, then maybe I am better off

On foot.

 

I don't ever remember a time when flowers didn't wilt, 

Or the galaxies behind people's eyes didn't burn up like novas the way bridges do when I'm given some matches and a lighter.

I don't ever remember a time when someone offered me their hand without me having to reach out first, and I want you to know -

I had the door slammed in my face first, but now

I am much better at

Navigating ocean currents and recognizing,

Visual distress signals.

 

I guess what I am trying to say

Is if I bare my teeth when you get too close

Take a step back, 

But don't leave. 

I have not yet mastered the art of standing still, but as of now

You are the only thing that slows my city down, 

And maybe

Instead of criticizing the view

I could just learn to shut the blinds.

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So...what now?

Caught clocked in

at another boring pitfall;

back blocked off

front/left/right

all wrong.

Thinking that

I've got to be

something better

than a better me,

and I could be content

but is that what it means

to say you're free?

I just move

(I never said that I am living).

I don't have to prove

a single thing

cause I'm not listening,

and the only one that matters

doesn't need to hear to know

that everything will follow

once he's finished saying so...

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Finding the Writer

I am the error in my ways

a format that I can't explain

in status of an editor

it's hard to read my own work.

 


The principals that I've applied

are stretched and so they are denied

connected by similarities

immersed in substance but lacking a hook.

 


Vague does well to justify

I've tried to find a better side

but things are not as stable

or specific as they seem.

 


Just take a look and you will see

with reason there's uncertainty

and though I read and write in text

I am not a book.

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Pressed Leaves

I don’t know exactly how we met.
But I can tell you it was
banal.

So many people focus on the roots,
but the further up the stem,
the closer you are to the sun
and for that brightness I’d fall
into the sea like Icarus.
Just once to touch it, grab it,
and never let go.
I’d take you down with me because

we’re one-use cameras with 
limited memories to share
the entwined fingers of the past,
the hopeless and hopeful of the future
brought together by mere chance to 
share one last dance in the here and now.

Find me that last photo, the last emerging
leaf, and I’ll hold it close in this notebook
heart of mine.

Only thing I ask of you is that you’ll
keep me pressed tight between the lines
of your scrawled pages.

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Remember, when you first fell from loneliness ("independence"—as you like to put it), you were caught by the stoic boy who said you were warm despite others who remarked you were colder than the December nights of Providence, whose body was scarred but seemed to be molded from birth to hold your head against his shoulders and when asked “what happens now?" he leaned over, took the cider from your hands, and kissed you…on the cheek because you were afraid and turned away, that even when he held your face so delicately you were frozen, eyes open as his lips pressed against your lips for seconds…1, 2, and then moved away so fast feeling embarrassed that his bold actions didn’t garner the right effect when they did and maybe, just maybe, of all these memories I have of us, I think of this one the most because remember, actions speak louder than words but maybe that night I wanted to listen and believe that the pen is mightier than the sword, that while the body is the only thing fluent in honesty and words string together too often to form lies, I wanted you to try because we’ve been taught all our lives to “show, not tell" but what is wrong about clumsily laying bare how I feel, how you feel, how we feel in words plainly dressed because that’s who we are—paupers not poets but that doesn’t mean we stop breathing thoughts and start breathing heavy because “tell, not show" is important too.

Because sometimes actions are mute and silence isn’t trust but we’ve never been taught that in school any more than we’re taught how to love.

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What do we do now?


In valleys

(both north and south)

clans were rallying

to move up

to a better house.

Put on their war-paint

to differentiate

the friends and foes.

They rode the cliffs

up to the top

to claim it

as their home.

 


They couldn't see

a thing,

but specs off

in the distance.

They kept on wondering

if enemies,

and on that pretense

they spread their ranks

and ran towards

the tiny figures.

They figured that

they'd push them off

and be unhindered,

but they were careless:

could care less to sustain.

They simply wanted

but they couldn't

find a way to gain.

 


Both groups (exhausted)

met up

in centre field.

They would have died

if they had fought,

each side

a sword to wield,

but they did not

because the paint

had smeared (they couldn't tell)

which side was theirs

and which was not

in conquest

they had failed.

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through favored words
and half-hearted
thoughts
we sink into
the dark,gasping
for air as slowly
into the nothing
we become all
that was ever
holy in no ones
name forgotten- 

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Rushing Writing

I used to write prose well. I used to dip into my inkwell and lose myself in the dwelling of thoughts that came my way. My pen would scratch tirelessly against pages, and I could hear the paper crooning in return; happy to listen to whatever story might be scratched against their nonjudgemental blankness. 

My heart used to so love telling stories, be they rooted in truth and experience or in creative expression. To soar on the wings of an emotion was the ultimate rush I could experience, a jump from space; all fiery passion in an exhalation of artistic release. 

But the problem with rushes, I've found, is that they tend to rush past the finish line long before we've had our fill.