with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

for Ralph Ellison

slippin
me ed
into the
wholesome
nothingness
of the
breach....

invisible
revelations
of
patient
affirmations
revealed

(nothing
remains
settled)

somewhere between
Exile on Main Street
Rolling Stones
Rip This Joint
&
Erik Satie
Gnossienne

Suffern
11/8/13
jbm

tender little plant,
you weep and sway with the bluster of a wind.
and when night falls,
you clench your shivering petals,
wishing the sun would kiss you once again,

and while dreaming, aching for that safe warmth,
you withstand
the dark, cold air,
long empty silence,
and the relentless clattering of raindrops.

remember,
frightened little plant,
that morning will rise.

your proud green leaflets will soak up the blooming sunlight,
and churn the elements into a life-force.

you are a powerhouse.

the bright warm atmosphere
seeps
deep
into your lungs,
and fills you,
pouring into your spine, your fragile stem,
collecting
into your baby-hair roots,
soft and thin, as they hug the cold, callous soil
that encapsulates you.

sometimes, you are to be painfully lonely.

remember,
brave little plant,
that it takes patience to become a tree.

and all
i wanted
was for you
to love me
for who i am
not
the monster
you'd see
in the eyes
of the people
around me


e.n

my mind moves faster than my mouth could ever hope to
and i so often find myself in self-inflicted messes,
embarrassed at my painfully apparent lack of finesse
when it comes to crafting syntax in a way that  actually makes sense.
endlessly i stumble, desert-throated, over meager words
that could never accurately convey the hurricanes inside my brain;
no matter the conviction with which i speak them.
the war for stillness rages on in the chaos of my skull,
shaken by tremors of memories like atom bombs.
my mind is screaming but it's all in a language
that i can't understand no matter how hard i try.
reduced to heaving sobs and irrevocable disgust for my inability
to to speak due to the lack of air inside my lungs.
thunder crashes and lightning flashes through my synapses,
looming in the form of opaque storm clouds above my bed.
i am sinking, no, i am absolutely drowning,
but there is no water around to be found for miles -
so i guess that makes these waves my thoughts,
and that must mean i waved goodbye to sanity's shorelines long ago.

- m.f.