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 Feb 2013 Meka Boyle
 Feb 2013 Meka Boyle
What if the closest I get
to that moment is now?
It is difficult
To see things
From the perspective
Of human beings
When they seem
So far from me

A bunch of extras
For an action scene
Less than capable
Consumer fiends
Confusing me
With their

All replaceable
Blood dolls
For me
With me

It is a little hard
To see
The shepherd
The sheep
Your heys
For the day

It is tough to see
A knife out
When below
The spigot
In a drought
The sorrow

It is a bit of trouble
To see
When you
Have played
The persistent
To a
That in fact


To give
Of their

On a
 Feb 2013 Meka Boyle
TJ King
4 o'clock, saturday
Dread and Panic are holding hands in my chest:
An extraordinary case of the mean reds
watching the gray
from my kitchen window

the cars parked over cement fields
precisely 300 vehicles when full
the boy sitting on a gray bench waiting
with his baseball, shh! His gray father is shouting
at his gray phone, his gray wife finally called that number.
all gray.

      the sky here is almost always sleeping
a blanket of melting nimbus
the gulls slide inoffensively over the roofs
our courtyard grass trembles for them

the wind falls out of the bay
wind, the world traveler without a suitcase
I imagine it kicking up dust in exotic fields
only the rocks are gray there,
gray because they deserve to be.

the whole scene is quite extraordinary
A Run Of Wild Horses! Gall-lop-ing
gliding offensively, red and white and gold
shining sweaty and flying!
can you imagine?

--it's starting to rain and the boy is still sitting,
he's so gray now I can hardly see him
the wind still spills in from the bay down the road
where I can see them running from my window-

Mains whipping like flags of furious change
Hooves beating down the cement footpaths
The streetlamps are crumpling into heaps of flowers
Tails raging back and forth, metronomous passion chords

Fast, rapid gaining (Lover's Heartbeat)
-the boy is yet unaware
legs of inspiration fast approaching
-the cars twist into red willows over golden hope fields
Shh! His father, master of gray has been sacked! Tr-am-pled!
Now his body of flowers lay in the street!

Arrest. They have arrested.

Standing tall and silent like Liberty
they take the boy upon their shoulders,
an acrobatic wonder
and continue slowly across the grass
-it still trembles for them
and take flight, to the next courtyard
and then the next.

I'll never forget the grayness of his eyes
as he disappeared over the trees
who were once chimneys,
his mouth was stuffed
full of flowers.
 Feb 2013 Meka Boyle
And what if I told
      you the world was on
           fire like a burning man,
        absorbed in his work,
              painfully turning to
                     productive ash

could this truth light
       the words from your
         lips, warm my
      sentiment as if
                  ignition is perpetually
                       within the scope of
               time like a teacup
           slipped under the table
 Jan 2013 Meka Boyle
PK Wakefield
let's all ***** who spring
(feet first)
climbing the swelter of
prim night

                        a bud

back ribbed in sinuous
muscular colours
rising drunk tingles
on quivering odors
lightness; darkness mingles
in single singing petal
revolt faster into

a cherry (stem clothed in)

and faintlier moans

Love isn’t a feeling
Love isn’t an action
Love isn’t a person
Love is a place.

It’s the cave of wonders
It’s a hospital room filled with new life, balloons, and flowers
It’s an altar in a church in the countryside of a town unknown
while a man pleads for the soul you’re not ready to give.
It’s a tent pitched next to the lake while fish cook over a crackling fire

It’s a home with a swing-set in the backyard with a dog tied to a banana tree, while naked children dance through sprinklers.
It’s the treehouse in the neighbor's backyard
It’s a living room where friends sit and play Nintendo 64
It’s a bathtub with bubbles and a book and a beverage

Love isn’t butterflies in your stomach
It’s a butterfly garden at the city zoo on a hot Saturday morning
with butterflies flittering and fluttering and flattering around.

Love isn’t jumping in front of a train for someone
It’s the parking lot of a hospital you run through to stand by a death bed, reading from a Bible you haven’t opened in twenty years.

Love isn’t your parents or brothers or sisters or cousins or friends
It’s the patio screened in, with the rain tap dancing on its roof,
while a father of three snores peacefully in a rocking chair.

Love is Calvary’s hill
It’s a trustworthy bank
It’s a dog kennel jam-packed with the loyal, the faithful, the brave, and the true
Love is an underground railroad connecting those who belong together.
edited 8/23/14
I find myself in the crowds of Central Park
The trees look taller than last time I was here
I’ve never been to New York

I’ve shed at least 54 tears in the last 12 minutes
I count them as they drop
Like seconds ticking off my clock
I can’t wait for tomorrow because
Maybe then I’ll feel better

The grass is green under the snow
I dug down to make sure
It took me 33 minutes to touch bottom
The grass was dead
It hasn’t seen the sun in at least 3 weeks

Maybe it is safer to be alone
I know for sure it’s easier to be alone
At least it was when I didn’t know what good company felt like
Now I can’t even read without feeling eyes over my shoulder

I don’t fit in here or there because of my odd mentality
I’m not mental, but my thoughts will soon be detrimental
I take a shower to feel better – it didn’t work
I go on a run - I didn’t make it back

I finally wake up; still crying
6 feet under and my heart finally calms
The dirt is fresh on my palms
I dig my own grave over and over
I have heavy boots
My boots are filled with all of the things I never say
They are getting heavier with all the things I never do
Sometimes it’s just easier to wear heavy boots
At least your legs get strong
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