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The sun rose and peeked through my window forcing my eyes open for the day
The dream interrupted, another of you, replays like a movie scene
I force myself up and feel the carpet under my toes, reminding me it was just a dream
Some days, you are all I think about
Other days, you don't even cross my mind
Almost two years have flown by; years I thought would take an eternity
Who are you now?
What do you do with your days you swore would be nothing without me?
I don't miss you
I'm just curious.
Benny liked
the Van Gogh paintings
in Amsterdam.

You went with him
and after you ate
and drank
at a cafe.

You know poetry
don't you Benny?
you said.

Yes sure
he said.

Do you think
Whitman was gay?

He looked at you
don't know
can't say
I've not read
much of his stuff
or know much
about him
he said.

I read it some place
you said.

Does it matter?
Benny said.

Not at all
you said
just wondered
if he was.

Benny lit a cigarette
and offered you one too
and you took one
and he lit it for you.

What do you find
so fascinating
about Van Gogh's art?
You said.

It speaks to me
Benny said
more than any
other artist
I see movement
in his skies
and trees
and in the fields.

You inhaled deeply
and watched
as Benny spoke
about the Sunflower print
he bought and how
he gazes at it
as a kind of prayer.

You mused on him
sitting there
wishing you and he
were back in the tent
making out
on the sleeping bag
while the other girl
was with some other guy.

Benny had asked you
a question about Amsterdam
but you never heard
and didn't give a ****.
A BOY AND GIRL IN AMSTERDAM IN 1974.
For the first twenty years since yesterday
                  I scarce believed thou couldst be gone away;
            For forty more I fed on favors past,
               And forty on hopes that thou wouldst they might last.
                    Tears drowned one hundred, and sighs blew out two,
               A thousand, I did neither think nor do,
               Or not divide, all being one thought of you,
               Or in a thousand more forgot that too.
          Yet call not this long life, but think that I
               Am, by being dead, immortal. Can ghosts die?
Lady, lady, should you meet
One whose ways are all discreet,
One who murmurs that his wife
Is the lodestar of his life,
One who keeps assuring you
That he never was untrue,
Never loved another one . . .
  Lady, lady, better run!
O BUT we talked at large before
The sixteen men were shot,
But who can talk of give and take,
What should be and what not
While those dead men are loitering there
To stir the boiling ***?
You say that we should still the land
Till Germany's overcome;
But who is there to argue that
Now Pearse is deaf and dumb?
And is their logic to outweigh
MacDonagh's bony thumb?
how could you dream they'd listen
That have an ear alone
For those new comrades they have found,
Lord Edward and Wolfe Tone,
Or meddle with our give and take
That converse bone to bone?
I will wrap you with my heart as
small as you are -
Let you go from my brain

Kindly

remove your delicious incisors
from my breast.
Sting of salt in that open wound;
shutter that vulnerability -

no one wants to see.

I will carry you in my pocket

pressed up to that sharp bone
until I forget -
and in the cycle, wash you out.
To shake dust from my pretty
child
i must mystify minds while, molding
pre-paved tile patios:
give the sheep’s pen a four wall construct
A-RISE above the morphic
and bellow, to comfort the feet.

Im stabbing quarters into my activation plate’s extra exhaust
to ignite something.
Spit some carbon –

Manic moments, move a myles like me to the metaphysical mirror.
And it is not this one that reflects,
but to the duties my appendages embody i –
lack expects.
Do due – Respect.
to this Chthonian carriages; my dermis quite the copy cat.

to say the body is made in the images
of a cosmic titan is overly abstract.
The big bang was an aftermath of a flatline,

“so whatchur telling me is that even the void gets tired?” (it says)

my guilt was relieved of its cage and given
new duties.

Project itself on a man with open eyes
searching for answers.
Close that third mind and let them
truths seep from the almost always
clogged sinuses.
Snore even.
feeding a stuffed belly
Dear ____

I found a letter the other night that I had written to you years ago.  The note said that you were my soulmate and that one day* you would realize it and come back to me and I'd wait for you forever.  So here's another letter that I will send...out here in this space where anyone can read it and interpret it as he may...

You will never realize I'm the one for you because you can't see who you are.  Underneath the layers of skin and bones, you're more.  That heart that beats and those addictions you crave glaze the truth in your soul and distract you by keeping you deep into the ground instead of planting on top of it.  I'm sorry that you never got to reciprocate the love I gave because you will never know a family, a home, or a future that surpassed your greatest dreams.  You will know mediocrity.  And to be honest, that makes me more sad than you could ever imagine....

And really, I don't care.  I do, but I don't because I feel like I ought to and that's the only reason I still even entertain these thoughts.  Do you understand?  I guess you can not give a **** and that's fine but there will come a day (it always comes) when you  see me (bump into me perhaps?) and you will apologize and see that I was right.  But I will be living the extraordinary life and even your disquiet will not dim my light.

We chose before we were born into these human, frail bodies - our souls would do this dance.  So, thanks.  For teaching me exactly what NOT to do. And for being the beautiful ******* that you are

Love always,
Me
Lightly come or lightly go:
Though thy heart presage thee woe,
Vales and many a wasted sun,
Oread let thy laughter run,
Till the irreverent mountain air
Ripple all thy flying hair.

Lightly, lightly -- - ever so:
Clouds that wrap the vales below
At the hour of evenstar
Lowliest attendants are;
Love and laughter song-confessed
When the heart is heaviest.
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