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I still feel your hands
on my face, your memories
flowing through my veins.

©  2017 José
B
for the ones who write me messages of & in loving trust*


short and sweet, and I knew it complete before I even thought it in my wide awaken rain-brain somewhere tween
1 and 4am and maybe it doesn't have a cute twist to close it up

this curse of worry for family and people I have never met
pushes down the bile of my ego, my selfish vanity, what goeth before the fall, and whispers natty go back to sleep,
you're ok and when you groggy rise in two hours to open
the shuttered store, you be reassured, you are
your own best
customer and so are they and u laugh quietly,
so as not to wake the world  

7/20/17 3:46am
two grandkids, five pigs, six cows, 18 chickens, four cats, and a lonely male duck*
~ for my friend, a gentle man who farms certain moments~*


heard the word that a certain poet of the day
has a secret crew who aid and abet his perspective,
the precious precision to understand and retain
the flashes of color that need painting albeit in words

read that some animals develop regional dialects,
so it is with humans, we listen, like and learn subsets
of vision and that even every collective moment, nonetheless,
each speaks differently, but only the few, the very few,
have the mellifluous tongue to translate those private seconds into syllables so essential human and we learn that skill from careful listening to our heartbeat's singing response
to love and pain from all living creatures, great and small

6/24/17 5:06am
S.I.
Paired down in heaven, the hawk-eyed sun
Gleaming bitterly through five limbs sees
The jeweled moon behave despondently-
Say from man dream beats the foam and bleeds
Like Prometheus sullen prose on infinite Oregons.

Take from your time the frost-eyed sun altogether
Staring sharply through a blind and smoldering world,
A love of truths so tried and secret.

Shall we in mercy take our gains under the rose-lit morning
A trial for time and truest?
Sense for the sun is swimming in our heart
A love of radio and silence.

Bleached like my Albatross,
Come in quiet a world safest
That burns black embers
In the woods of our soul since forever
And sound.

Sound down the heavens
In the silent hour of their hell,
The tide of time on a bone-white beach.

From what high altar looking in his place,
God of man,
The god-man and holy to his place
To forge the eye of seasons,
Seven in their number,
And stretch out solitude
On the blistered ground.

Shared down in source,
The last of the kings,
Holy in his crown
Of bodies that smile
So wide and honest each.
If I stand here can you still feel me?
The coarse threads, silky strands,
The moving flesh and heart,
Stilled by solid ice of bones.

Blinking is of no avail,
I think, I can still see everything, though the illumination is faint,
As if I’m watching the world change colours from light to dark, from dark to darker;
By now I can’t even read your expression, because I never knew the first thing about you,
And you never tried to understand me.

At times when the room was spinning and I tried to speak,
To make you comprehend the warmth, the stretch, the combustion inside me,
The only answer I received was a hot gush of breath leaving your parted lips,
And I lost the fight against the white blaze burning behind my eyelids.

Just now do I realize, as I reach for your hand in mid-air and lace my fingers with yours,
That the unwavering darkness of your gaze made my lights fade out.
But I don’t feel the loss, no wave of remorse washes over me,
Because your black is more radiant, than my white ever could have been.
You were the rays of
Light, that shined through cracks in my
half open curtains.
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