Because your voice was at my side
I gave him pain,
Because within my hand I held
Your hand again.

There is no word nor any sign
Can make amend -- -
He is a stranger to me now
Who was my friend.

Him uttering these three time-ridden letters where more than enough to bring his family to tears.

As Seraphina stepped onto the ground, she remembered her late father. His words, once foolish and heretical, began to make sense after all that had happened. The sky was freedom, but her feathers fettered her to the ground.

stopped talking to me
for so **** long

I started looking for it
in everyone else’s mouth

maddening, descending
a downward spiral staircase

and at the bottom
there is a dust-frosted trunk

packed to the brim
with love letters & promises to me

reading them feels like
voyeurism into another world
another time, another — dream

I know some of my come-trues
want to come through

if I can just stop trying to be
and allow my me

to me free

Oh, love, we don't have long to wait, it's true,
The clock ticks fast, but hearts know what to do.
There is no need for plans, no grand display to make,
Love's tender bud will bloom for goodness' sake.

A stolen glance, a whispered, gentle word,
A shared delight, a song by nature heard.
With these simple threads, a tapestry began,
A love that grows, beneath the setting sun.

So let us dance, beneath the fading light,
For love unfolds, in whispers of the night.

Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath

Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013