Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Kevin Moxley Oct 2011
I am a section
                    a piece. Nothing more. Able to be
          transported anywhere.
An “African Barn Swallow” – that’s the cliché.
          Pretending it makes me feel like
                    a tremor.
                    Rhythmic.
The flavor of this
          I will probably never remember
          except – like this
                    Peculiar.

I am a section
An “African Barn Swallow” – that’s the cliché.
The flavor of this
          transported anywhere.
          Pretending it makes me feel like
          I will probably never remember
          except – like this
                    a piece. Nothing more. Able to be
                    a tremor.
                    Rhythmic.
                    Peculiar.
Kevin Moxley Oct 2011
The time it takes to think is three dots…

…Little strands of thought
like wisps of mist in the forest.
Nothing to follow
nothing to grasp
just the visible presence of
Curtains in the Fog…

…When does memory become memory?

I will drop anything
at any time
if you need me.
Sit and cry on rainy stoops.
They say;
“Love is watching someone die.”
And I just – ugh – so happy…

…Were the world mine,
I could write out my own dream
where la fille danse,
sarei piú popolari,
we are what we believe we are,
and I am laughing with the stars –
we will hear them, we will know…

…All that I know is I’m breathing,
nothing but a man. Breathing.
What makes a man?                    (I Don't Know)
What makes him tick?                (I Don't Know)
Bel ragazzo, put down your sword
All we can do is keep       breathing…

…My heart is beating out of context
limping for recognition
strong bodies tight skin
a figure weakened by winter’s neglect
I am disvalued
the warning signs are endless –
*so who’s gonna watch you die?...
Kevin Moxley Oct 2011
I wish I knew what you thought about at  night,  alone in your bed when the lights are off.
When  the  lights are  off  and I am  alone  in my bed  at  night I  think about  breathing.
I  think about  breathing like I  think about  writing, and when I  think about  writing
I  think  about my  mom. There was a  dip in the  road near my  childhood  home,
and  every time we  drove  over it  she  would go just a  little  too  fast.  Every
time we would  jolt  quickly up and down in our  big grey van. And  every
time the  pit  of my  stomach  would get  lost  somewhere  in  the  road
behind us. It was  always  hard  to  breathe. When the lights are off
and    I  am  alone  in  my bed at  night  I think  about   breathing.
I  close    my   eyes   and    feel   my    chest   rise    and     fall.
I    want    a   rose   and   I  miss   the   fall.  It   was    cool
in      the    fall     and     crisp    and      clear.   I     wonder
what   the  weather  was   like  during  the  Fall  of   the
Roman    Empire?   If   it   was   warmer   or   colder
than    its  Rise?   Why   am  I  so   scared  to   rise?
It  is  easier  to  fall.   Fall   in   love   every   day.
Fall     into     bed.     Fall    asleep.    Fall    into
your      arms.     When     I     fall      in      my
dreams    I    don’t     always    wake    up.  I
don’t   think     that     is    normal.   When
I    fall    in   my   dreams   I   am   given
a     chance      to      reconcile     them.
When   I     fell   in   love   with   you
I  was  not   allowed  this   closure.
But  the  joy  existed  in the   fall,
and    maybe   also  in  the  fact
that  you  wouldn’t  fall. Fall
with  me now. We will rise
together.  But  not  until
the summer sun burns
our eyesand melts
our     bodies.
Unti  l then
let   us
fall.
Kevin Moxley Oct 2011
inside me.
I dance in the wind
of my own breath,
examine the mechanics
of the moving parts,
the tangled veins,
and a ****** heart.
I walk down roads
of muscle and bone
looking for something unknown.
I feel my skin sing
of light
of color
(maybe) of you.

I see the world through my own “I’s.”
of “you”
I have no way of knowing.
I might find a “you” if
I search outside myself.
I tried.
But there is an evil
inside me.
It is comfort,
I am happy.
I am
Kevin Moxley Oct 2011
Stephanie, Please just
leave tuna to
roam free
in the apt
when you come
back from walk
of course
breed was amazing!
Kevin Moxley Oct 2011
prayers sent to a lost
god hiding in the city of fear
passions rough people on the rough
street a haze of power
and pavement these sheer
words traced on skin-
paper the wiped-out touch
of harsh vibrancy smog
bred in the smoke of my
freedom lost blinding veins my
city my
anger my
forgotten unforgiven reflection
regrets etched in glass
this is the summer of our
dirt of
steel-laced light pounding
depression amber voices
attacking screaming little
stolen ripples
in the stone

— The End —