your whole body becomes a map made for me
to explore the uncharted territories
conquer the lands where I see fit to leave my mark
to seek and record with eyes and hands what is tangible
but I wish, more than anything, that I could uncover
your mind, your soul, your core, your being
to find my way under your skin as you have mine
the topography of your brain is a beautiful landscape
I want to study your phenomenology
to become a cartographer of your sulci and gyri
come to know the lines and ridges of your consciousness
create new methodology to observe and transcribe
your brain is a fingerprint unique, and yours
all the more beautiful for it's belonging

your touch was poetry
in a language I can't read anymore
I still feel it in the core of my bones
the lines and shadows of each letter
drawing out a standing ovation
I had never felt freedom from my mind
you showed me how I could let go
held me in a way that led me to believe
I would be okay somehow
because you'd catch me if I fell
gentleness and death in your eyes
now you speak and your words
disappear in the air before reaching me
on the other side of the room I see
your lips and hands move but can't
make out the sounds or shapes you take on
so I watch the way you create poetry
like looking at pictures in a book
when you touch someone else
in the language we once spoke

the bartender poured
a double of something
"drink this," she said
"just don't smell it,
and definitely don't sip it"
her light eyes looked at me
and for a moment reminded me
of what I wanted to forget
I downed the shots but
they never made me feel better
I briefly contemplated my options
a one-way ticket to Manchester
or drinking on-sale antifreeze
my silver jacket buttons
holding cold in their heart
I took a drag from a cigarette
dangled it between my fingers
"I don't even smoke", I laughed
my words hung in the air
like a foreign object out of reach
and it smelled like you
watching ashes and smoke
getting lost in the crisp air

The guy who wore a scarf at the bar,
he chose not to write
because he's ‘no Hemingway.’
I told him no one stops me.
Memories of Ginsberg, Frost, Thomas,
and even Bukowski's drunken ghost
make me feel at home in my words.
That didn't change the guy's mind,
so I told him to drink up
and do something else.

-Ron Gavalik

you poured gold over my scars
caressed them with tenderness
held me while I wept that snowy afternoon
destroyed and recreated
you told me I didn't have to see myself
as broken, despite the fact
I felt shattered and torn
fragile as glass or porcelain

I've fought myself for years
lost to the demon inside that told me
become so thin you disappear
walk in the tundra until you freeze
make yourself bleed to death
I only loved myself when you held me
loved my body because it was yours then
that it could feel your touch and breath

now I fell and broke with a crash
my jagged pieces formed a puzzle
I can still be useful and full of good
I've picked up the pieces one by one
put myself back together this time
ignored the voices wanting pain
became my own gold and watched it
sparkle as I rebuild myself

I'm not okay, even though I know everything will be

eventually