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Infatuation.
It’s a girthy, 5-syllable word and you’re
In a fat, juicy, situation.

It’s a swollen, darkened fruit
That begs to be taken completely,
Flesh devoured entirely.

But it’s a trap.

The sweet and tangy blood of it
That dribbles down your chin
To your neck
To your *******
To your heart
To your stomach
To your hips
To your groin
To your ***
Down your thighs
To your nervous toes
Is not love.

Nobody wants to hear that.

But some day
- If you are incredibly lucky -
You will look at your maroon-stained palms
And the dry, sticky rivers of years running down your wrists
And laugh until you cry when you realize
That you could wash your whole body
Because love is not in the juice.

It is not your addiction,
Your summer picking,
Your hungry belly,
Your well of adrenaline,
Your rushing of heartbeats,
Your tangling of bodies,
Your jealousy, yearning,
Nor pride.

If you are incredibly lucky
You will suddenly know love.
As silent, simple, and strong
As the fabric of the universe itself.
 Apr 2013 Kayla Hollatz
SeaChel
I fatten them up first
by breaking their spine.
They sigh with thanks as they unfold
their tightly compressed pages.
Each dog-eared corner is a
goodnight kiss;
A place in which I bid to them,
"See you soon."
I am a surgeon to each of them as well;
a master in gluing and taping.
Because we all know a healthy book
is a worn book,
and as long as the pages
are all in order
it is craving to be read.
I once knew a little man
Who kept at a job he did not understand
And day after day
He’d go off to work and he’d say:
Today I’ll learn who I am

But Monday came
And then it went
And Tuesday came
And it too was spent
Like Wednesday and Thursday
And then at last Friday
While he sat in a confused lament

And week after week
His office chair squeaked
Until finally he made up his mind
He’d quit, he decided, and just in time
For that very night he died in his sleep

(C) Marty Schoenleber III 2013
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