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There were some books in the hall,
I was told that they were yours,
And the thought crossed my mind
That, were you ever to haunt a thing instead of place,
It would be books-
Your books.
The smell of the old paper
Filled my nose.
It was like walking into a library.
A book of English drama
Lay in the stack-
Heavy and black.
Your name scrawled on the spine,
White against the dark.
It reminded me of you,
So I took it,
Raggedy spine and all.
And now it sits on my shelf,
To reassure me, much the way you did.
Of what I’m not sure,
Perhaps just for a sense of solidarity.
Books will always be there,
Living and breathing,
Even when their owners have gone.
 Feb 2013 L K Eaton
Rose Bernhard
A fresh start,
but dread,
deceit,
pain,
and longing,
hang heavy over the heads of the children.

It is not an issue of sanity,
of hunger,
of theft,
or of disease that concerns these young souls,
but an issue of the heart.

The blood of a precious love has been spilt,
the once white page,
splattered with lies.

Lust and longing,
two things young lovers know not about.
A trip to Seattle can change the fate of two people immensely.

He was a boy from a city,
A boy who dealt with the slurs *** and Flipper every day,
despite his straight qualities.
She was a Nepali beauty,
accustom to getting what she wanted.

They were stuck in relationship far beyond their control.
He,
desperately in love,
She,
dreaming of a boy out of reach.

One night,
Can change everything.

The air remained heavy with the wish for rain,
the sun tired from it's long day of work,
and the crisp white clouds begging for a breeze.

He,
on a plane home.

She,
wishing it were different.

Stuck.

Lust, Love, Desire, Deceit.

We all want to find that perfect someone.

But when you're only a babe,
don't take anything too seriously.

You have a whole life,
of guys,
and dolls,
just waiting for you.
Matters of love, you’ve reaped into me
Dynamics of knowledge, richness and profoundness
Bringing age to my heart

Knowing love and knowing brutal pain
More real, more powerful, more beautiful
Gifted consciousness filling missing part of potential
Crumbling down our incompleteness

Loving you more than consciousness of my thoughts will allow
More than the passion of my intensity
To be a model of human brilliance
Manifests within the existence of my being

I am a furnace
You are the only flame
Sparking this wild fire

I am a candle, inanimate,
You are the flicker that gives it life, light, soul

I'm am intrinsic potential waiting to be actualized
You are the catalyst of life breathing momentum into me
Through your existence

A flower, a beacon, weapon to my oppression and pain
Appropriation of your love, impossibility in my life

Immaculate potion to my sorrow
Like a wild flower
Withstanding thunder, hurricanes, and rain

An atom from another dimension
Your pulse travels through my heart and my soul

As dangerous as ore
You are the purest form
Deep underneath farther than I can explore
You are the most beautiful creation

You are the end to my means
Unconceivable new reality to my rebellion

The revolution I await
In the deepest part of my existence
Knowing it might never be

Key to my chains
Chant to my muted voice

You are the embodiment and the soul of my freedom
Always escaping from me
January 18, 2013
 Jan 2013 L K Eaton
Ugo
I remember the morning Tuesday was invented—
how gleeful we sang across the streets—
forgetting that the day after tomorrow would be Thor’s day
and that one we didn’t own, too.

I remember the bathroom stalls, the sins of Leviticus
we survived
comforting our confusion with the indulgence that God too
love man, kind.

Let the purgatory full of half good men sing about their sins
with pride and laugh at the moons and stars for being without limbs
and tongues to protest their innocence and Idontgiveadamnisms;


For I remember being fed the tenets of heterosexual history in elementary school
yet wondering why queer gods are the ones named after the planets.
In the loving memory of David Kato Kisule (c. 1964 – January 26, 2011)
*If We Keep On Hiding Away, They Will Say We Are Not Here*
Poetic justice, I suppose.
She imposed a thought within me, a repetition,
A groove upon which this melody plays,
A soft saxophone timbre eskimo kissing with the cochlea lashes.

Every face passing in alleys and sidewalks is a puzzle box shifting,
Incoherent until its cubes turn into her face again.
The city within me says she is anew, and this cube does not shift to the same old solution,
But the earth in my soul sprouts vines beneath its bustling feet, and the vines twist into her visage.

My words are phantoms, and I speak them to the newest beautiful stranger,
Each stranger more beautiful than the last, more comforting and satisfying,
But the nucleus of those scattered electrons, those uncertain ghosts finished by a period,
Is the tattoo upon my recollection, my favorite neon puzzle box.

I wait in the ambiguous, discomforting silence for a day she will be solved.
 Jan 2013 L K Eaton
Amanee Powers
the night came to me
in a blur of color.
the people dripping with sweat,
the air is fills with smoke,
and the scent of old mahogany
inhabits my shirt.
the room spins
as the liquid burns my throat.
the music booms in waves
through the thick atmosphere.
cups scatter over the marble floor,
like leaves on a fall day.
my head becomes heavy,
but my body moves to the beat.
 Jan 2013 L K Eaton
patti
I have been bright, hovering for weeks with the edges of ovals I so narrowly believed to be bicycle wheels,
discovering good friends in places right under the windowsill, freshening up the roses
in the pots I'd forgotten about on the back porch.

and there's you, a dream perhaps,
a sliver of pecan pie left over from the holidays but increasingly fresh
I'd like to twinge the tremors in your body that make you hum
and satiate pulsing bodies in flat, parallel lines of desire and decisiveness
I'd like to be the twisting ivy on the brimming edges of tentative youth,
to scale your walls and snuggle in the safety of wonderment and lack of knowing,
any better.

I'd like to make the bluebirds sing with throats of slim-cut rubies,
to have contentment and a battle born, hand held, period of time in which
I can enjoy a piece of dessert, well deserved

— The End —