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Vastness

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Moons hug tightly to their brightened lovers, never letting go, gravity keeping them together. Stars and galaxies fill the void around them, flying farther and farther apart. Their vast emptiness is not an increase in solitude. The darkness is full of energies. Sometimes I wonder, can we see love not as a singular planet, but as a cosmos?

 

The Instrument (Portrait #2)

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I stumbled upon her, hidden behind a large sliding door, within the comfort of darkness, unmoved, silent.

Is that possible? She seemed so old, so incredibly old, as if one touch would turn her into dust.

And dust was inside, so much earthly powder rising, floating. I fanned it away, swiping three times. Breathless, I dared to look deeper.

For I knew this was a dust that could bite, its fangs lay into your skin so softly, you think you only have an itch, then a blinding light loosens upon you, never dimming.

I waited for the storm to settle and found her glimmer. She was naked, naked silver, like a dissected serpent, a flute, an instrument of sound, not chatter, dormant.

I’ve had enough of the latter to last all my lifetimes, but her body held certain tones of gravitation, melodies of singularity, connecting my emotion with thought, bunching up within me, squirming in my gut, rattling amongst my speculations.

My ears, I blamed for all confused utterances, yet I loved them, for they alone had the ability to divvy up beauty from all noise competing for my attention.

And now I had found her, mute, unmoved, and now my fingers brushed against the pitting of silver plate, the gilding of argent, rough greenish, blackish pits within metal and marks of ancient lips imprinted upon her embouchure.

A sound was made, shaped, guided, the union of a kiss. My lips wetted, my body moist, until they came following the sound.

And they smiled as if they loved me, stood in admiration, ready to woo me to the sound not the harmony.

She was just metal, wasn’t she? Who could love someone based upon a sound? It was not me, I swear. She developed warmth upon a touch and it was that heat they heard.

She dropped from my lips, the branches of my soul, back into the dusty dark, where I swear I loved her more than any, until another pair of ruby stained lips would press upon her neck.

Someone will jump back into that grave, looking for the flowers of her melody.

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Apprehensive Sunlight

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The floor chases the sun

Disturbing the warmth, Dust wanders

Within bent beams, embedded

In light captured heat

Moves as an animal, crawling

Never quite caught, always catching

 

Late leaves, blended with sidewalks

Attempt a crossing, through portal

Entering dry, slightly sifted

Remnants, now empty veins

Lost among the floorboards

Still trying, still trying, always trying

 

Screens are guardians, slim aluminum

Bugs not meant to be heard

Play pretend with access, asking

Confused, glancing curiosity,

Darting, from screen to screen

An escapeless web, teased by wind

 

The fireplace, forgotten tomb

Sits still, breathless, sullen

Until blown upon by suffocation

Sparks break out, wild upon the world

Die in the night, depthless deep

The morning buries them, softly

 

The sun, a cold reminder, where

Blinds attempt to illuminate

Loss of cycle, the crouching star

Until the horizon eats the beam

Spinning, spinning flat, until

Hands are rubbed together

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A World Away Means We Are Dust

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A world away

means we are dust

Showing a sign

Is a leaf in the crack of the sidewalk

 

Even if I did say

Something stupid

You know I’m true

 

Even though

I got mad

You know my heart is real

 

I’m aware

Of words

That shoot sideways

 

I’m guilty

Of saying

Things layered in misdirection

 

Even if

My tongue

Never touches yours ever again

 

Even if

My hands

Never feel the tautness of your stomach

 

I am

Your friend

Regardless of my desire

 

I am

An ear

Listening to your desires

 

But,

 

A world away

Means we are dust

 

Please,

Please,

Please,

No.

The River (Portrait #1)

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The river–

Cold, of a certain depth, certain speed, enough to conceal .

Annie had freckles that hid frowns, dusty eyes—unmanageable red hair like wild wires sitting upon a strange round head.

Pulling Jessie’s wet wrists, towards the water, hands slipped away.

Annie had words to say. The words had to mean something even if they sounded like nothing.

Her voice was the trembling kind, a voice without certainty.

Such a voice carries in the forest differently. It is embraced by small sounds. It was these small sounds Annie placed hope upon, to take care of Jessie.

Jessie had been strong for her tiny stature, a rugged frame with a curvy overtone, bronzed skin and goddess hair.

It is true a river separates the banks, but they meet somewhere, either at a spring or a river, or the ocean. Such it was that Annie hoped for Jessie.

It was time for the words. First—sound of commitment, not the act itself, but the desire. Second—words of bonding. Annie kissed Jessie’s lips, frigid, but the lips should have been bluer. Third—a plea to the river. The words had to be spoken like an action, a movement of life, a movement towards death………….movement. The water never stops.

The splash of Jessie’s body echoed off the trees lining the river. They were the only other witnesses.

Was it too loud? The snow, thanks to the snow, the sound was dampened.

A couple specks danced in the air, gliding down, disappearing within the carpet of white that hid the soil.

All was quiet, until a couple of trees rubbed trunks, sounding like a wild animal with its paws sunk in dirt.

Annie raised her silent head and solicited the sky. “Touch her!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Word Knots

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Span of index, arms weakened

Rambles upon wrinkles, I am

Pressed between Earth and

Air…..Flow upon my continent’s

Systems, scattered over ranges

 

Puddles flirt with thirst, Lakes,

Mock the drought of my

Throat, Reservoirs dribble…

For My body is a gathering

Of harvests from the oncoming

Winter, the divining rod dust

Only Scent lingers, eternal pine

 

I look to the snow, Taste

The season, a melted past of

Garnished greens, grays, and suns

 

Hearty robin, ever alive, steam

Floating from her beak, Nest

Built of water, sticks, and mud

Her Feathers, wisdom’s movement

Lay upon my words, a slow worm

Snagged from frosty grass

Scrawled black upon the field

Desert letters made of tree knot

 

Symbols smeared / slants of rain

The blue, blue liquid cleanses

Meaning, shot out of innards

The words, worms always

Cut in two, the clay I am

 

My eyes, lids nearly glued shut

Begging for preservatives

Or the relieving thought of

A connection to moisture

That will keep words moving

My wet hand through dirt.

Pain rides up between thumb

Finger, Palm and Lifeline.

My arm is silent, swollen.

 

 

 

Language is oil now, dug

Dug, deep under my nails

I See Behind The Glance

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I see behind the glance

The smell of hair

My nose dug deep

Kisses graze off

 

Missed deserts drink

Daylight, a fear

Nighttime, a place of fibs

Soft hidden in the harsh

 

I have no sight

Beyond what I feel

Fingertips wander

Within contact, silence

 

It’s not a word

For those, who run

And run, and ruin

Wetness drops, then

 

A host of wishes

The sky is too full

Planets glide, as

Satellites grab, desperately

 

I’ve a thousand looks

A tune for everyone

That includes nobody

I say nothing, as it should be.

 

I see before the glances

Scent lingers, now

I dig my face, deep

Inside the pillow

 

Touching

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When you don’t touch for the first time, you never have to touch for the
last time. But, all the touching in between those two creates a world of
its own. Next time, go ahead and touch throughout. No matter how long it lasts.

There Are Days Of Longer Daylight

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There are days of longer daylight

When time can’t figure out what direction it travels.

A lost light, which cannot heal, as it hurls itself forward

A movement through something, changing

Abandoned. It cannot come back or go home.

 

We build nests with thoughts, to further

Our grip on movement, creating, extending,

Daylight beyond the planet’s wobble

Building structures deep into the backswing

Back and then back again

Comforting our ego, the id out of control.

Still, we are afraid to go. Where else,

Does one go if not mingling with the sky?

 

A Trip of returning to yearning

Our haven, a little heaven that discomforts

The hidden specter the day yanks at

Drags our taste for life onto the welcoming mat

A home, We sip sweet flavored rum

Grinning with a separation in our teeth

The little tiny thing that holds us back

The fear is found in the haunting smile

Kisses are heated lip upon lip, sweet rum

They are open for debate, scented

Sweat, searing into sugar moistness

Lasting through a fragile daylight.

 

The Sound Of Listening

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The soundness of judgment is composed from the silence of listening.

The Ripples Are Confused

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The river runs grey today

Echoing the action of clouds

They move, as it runs

We are underneath, on the banks

 

The river is smiling at us

This leads to a flood of sky

Movement, on the way

The flow can’t be trusted

 

We are on the coast

Our houses hidden inland

The moss, on the roofs, built

Of Branches reaching overhead

 

We dip our hands in the cold

Our lawns, the frozen current

Left to grow gray, abandoned

A false green, wanderlust concrete

 

The ripples are confused

The river is bent under will

We are dams and dikes

The grey is always today, always was

 

The sky brushes against our skin

The river seeps, never asleep

We pave the damp ground

Our Roads are wet ribbons

 

Tar bubbles and pebbles

We magnify our stagnancy

Tires circulate, escapeless

Rocks embedded in tread

 

Our faucets are rainfall

Foothills filter our lives

The stream, captured, moves

We are but ripples, confused

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