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Posts Tagged ‘Words’

The rose had beaten her
to catching up with the moment
equally as sleepless
and heavy hips drooping
with pre-dawn condensation
struggling against gravity.
Weight.
Atmospheric pressure.

A single pluck
and then silence.

Laying her head flat
against the z words
she would let the knight of Webster,
ever green his shimmering armor,
perform the blow.
Xertz. Quire. Jollox. Cumberground.
And last… agastopia.
A thud. The non-euclidean space
would briefly make things new.

She knew time well. It’s serpentine vice.
She ate dinner while she waited.

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Prosody

Weight
the enemy of flight –
but from her mouth
that dense milieu
is fog that light
cannot penetrate
but flesh can part.
Eyes are the slave to hands,
art the envy of might
and when she speaks
she calls your heart to
take up arms
against your sight;
A lie so beautiful
it flaws the truth,
and turns the day
to night.

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I am Bic

Carve.
The father and the bird.
The hand of Bernini
guiding each
subtraction.
The food we eat.

Words were frantic
on our first date –
nerves mortising
our stories.
The effect
was shortened distance.

Squeezing away the spaces.

The heroic couple.
Nobody rhymes alone.
Born of wood
and kerning,
nature, the hand of Bernini,
forged us
into symmetry
as he holds every
atom in check.

Squeezing away spaces.

Sometimes
when we hug
I imagine one
body subsuming
the other. Unity.
Prosperina’s meaty
thigh sinking into
a tight grasp. I have to remind
myself we are stone. Not blood

Squeezed from the spaces.

 

 

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In the Spring

The sun is a harsh
binary between the overhanging
shadows caused by
trees exalting.
She is the center of the day
and the language of night.
O, firmament!
O, leafy hands of Atlas!
Why do you crack under
the weight?

The wind is hubris
removing
spring from the air.
From where does it fly –
down Irish cliffs
and across the blue ocean.
O, breath of life!
O, wings of Icarus!
Why do you melt
against the skin of lovers?

The earth is fecund.
Apples left to rot are
feeding the children.
We have gained gravity
from sauces and pies
joviality from cider and
Jersey Lightning.
O, mountain of laws!
O, the perch of Zues!
Why can’t we understand
what is above us?

This is the heat
she said.
One must sweat.
We worked;
and worked
ourselves to the bone.
Over like the sky
Under like the dirt
we rolled.
O, sweet Penelope!
O, the towers we build to God!
Why are we here rather
than there?

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Dead Languages

When our voices stopped
we realized the silence
of the car. Even the usually
fickle transmission was
a silent assassin.
Her fingers moved like
conspiracy as she tapped
an uncomfortable beat
into her expensive purse.
I rolled the window down
to let breath into the void.
She cursed loudly
and hit me.
The car jerked temporarily
into the other lane
and then back into
the dead silence of a long
car ride.

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Briser Mon Existence En Deux

Put your fingers to your lips
and peddle to the gas
while our tiny car whips
air against your rebelling face,
my telling face, and your hair.
Such are our day trips
when days are so long
that speaking of satisfaction
is a betrayal. Such that each word
resembles the 2nd mouth,
the 9th circle,
the oceans of thirsty men.

Such was our lifeboat,
adrift if not drowning
and silent, always silent,
to save us from betrayal
and the danger of putting words
to the peddle
instead of feet.
Inside our heads we can only
hope that the other dies first
to prevent them from
the torture of
this lifeboat alone.

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Redacted – For WL

Feet tapping. Fingers failing
to shuffle tiles on a rack.
Eyes squinting, lips pressing
around glass, his next attack
a five letter word meaning
“a forceful verbal assault”
drops like a bomb on Bletchley town.
Another smooth drink goes down.

His mind, endlessly decoding
scrabbled simulacrums
on the old torn chair
he found forgotten.
It perpetually overlooked
a game board and a dictionary.
Summer and youth
mixing like mint and brandy
with a little ice.

He liked the chair
because it was textured
like music. It had a meaning.
It needed interpretation
and more
illumination
than the towering lamp could give.
Some veteran had sold it to him
because of memories
of World War II. It was a solid
lamp that towered toward a heaven
out of reach by the small
Scrabble board. Like Babel
for wooden tiles.

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The tongue is a pillar of salt
it turned back against command
to see its kin burn.
Before it died it saw the sky kiln
churn and devour.
Before it died it heard the screams
and smelled the sulfur
of a dying race.

It didn’t say anything though.
How could it, when all of a sudden
it knew why it shouldn’t turn back.
It felt the bloodline pass
in the fire of justice
and new that it should’ve been there
with its neighbors, with its friends.

Love is a strange thing like that.
It moves through history-
like history – making endless connections.
The heart beats, the blood flows,
the tongue speaks because it loves.
Yet here at the edge of a turning world
our tongues turn back
and they are salt.

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We never intend our voice to be a mirror
after a year. Writing is a release –
that means don’t come back.
To cry the tear of a reader
to pose a question – to describe a lack.
The cocoon sealed green opens
and the history of those people
is a stream reflecting light.
Water isn’t without connotation
words are not without denotation –
and thus an elderly man can come across
the stream he crossed in youth
sockless and happy –
and feel nothing but sorrow at
the sameness of it all.
In time he will build a bridge
to never look upon the waters again.
The bridge will bear his name
the name on the lips of those who pass
with their children in hand.
Small girls laugh at the wind carrying seeds
as mothers sneeze loudly.
The young boys pull with all their might
against the weight of their fathers
toward the edge of the path.
For one second they want to see the river
as it passes through the trees,
under the bridge,
and on into the horizon.

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He Never Spoke…

His voice, captured in ink
Knows not time on the letter
Too old to fold.
His thoughts could do no better
than to leave his mouth and sink
through the paper he gave his life to.

I had just told you, I had just said
my father was a silent man
His word sold for gold
A tongue tied Calaban
Emotions trapped in his head
like a cave. I had just told you.

What else could I have thought?
His hands were bigger than my world
too bold to hold
a sinewed story to unfurl
about a lesson too important to be taught.
I never knew what to do.

Now a letter, one of maybe thousands
written for the woman’s ear,
a soul to make whole,
Praises she could never hear
Deafness, decreed by the Lord’s command,
struck her when she was two.

That same beloved woman died giving birth
to a boy, too young to be without a mother,
They stole my soul,
No tears from father. He knew I would be worth
the sacrifice of the other.
She was the reason I was never spoken to.

Now a letter tells me this, after he had died
an old man, joining his beloved wife,
too old to behold
He’d been waiting his entire life
“Amen” was all that I replied.
The first word I said that was true.

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