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 Jul 2016 JT
hadley
skin&teeth
 Jul 2016 JT
hadley
last night
dreams of neatly packaged anxiety
neatly parceled into my worst fears
planted themselves, grew their roots during my sleep.

i dreamt of irreparable scarring
a face no one could love
the pity of strangers
grief painted across my face in streaks of angry red
dry skin
red like your mother's old tea kettle
crackling like newsprint on a windy day

when you feel as if you are fighting a losing battle
with your own flesh
there is only so much war to be waged
face defeat.
skin will never be her flawless porcelain
will burn as deeply as your shame.
your teeth slightly crooked
sugarfree gum packed into a hesitant casing
leaning as if trying to escape the only mouth they will ever know

in an age of daylily smiles
women sculpted by their own reassurance
will you ever see my smile beyond all that i am not?
~this was a bit on the more personal side for me, i may delete this later~
 Jul 2016 JT
hadley
i feel my sadness manifest                  
i tear apart my hopeless heart            
for a shred of what was once            
whole.
i want you to obliterate me                                                            
take my very skin and bone                                                    
want the heat of your breath                                            
to heal all of the wounds my love has left me              

fill up the dark caverns of my lonely        
with your condescension and beautiful eyes      
thinking of you      
feels like shards of glass      
feels like the erosion of something holy      
feels like walking the line      
next to something extraordinarily beautiful    
you are
something
extraordinarily beautiful.
loving you hurts so bad.
 Jul 2016 JT
SE Reimer
~

a mortal can no more free himself
than can from ravenous spider,
the frail and struggling fly;
nor from ferocious wolf,
can flee the helpless lamb.

a mortal sees his frailty,
feels his utter weaknesses,
in mind, in sprit, and in frame,
weighted ’gainst the task at hand
can raise his head no more again.

for to lift, to build, restore, forgive
these no mortal man has ever done.
but ask a man who knows his ilk,
the kin of whom he is,
the stuff with which he’s made
the cloth from which he’s cut...

he is no mortal man
who knows the dust
from which he’s plucked;
who’s hands have molded his;
who’s very chest has heaved,
with breath from giver,
this his gift.

tis his, the bugled call,
on longing ears that falls,
gives answer to the sound;
this the one when wisdom cries,
in streets she gathers round,
calling voice to one to all...

“let your weeping cease
and from the void,
the darkened corners creep.
no more you are
oh man, oh woman,
no mere mortal thee!
you breath the very wind,
with forward vision see,
graced with strength and
robed in immortality!"


immortal one, to him ordained,
to raise his voice above the fray,
beyond the strife, through the pain;
of mortal man the lot, the whole,
none can raise his mortal soul;
but gift him immortality,
a mortal man is he no more,
immortality has set him free!

~

*post script.

in believing himself wise enough to know all,  mankind settles for only shreds of truth and dismisses his immortality as impossible fairied tales and *******; embracing mortality, he dooms himself to an endless spiral of hopelessness, closing his mind to the hopefulness that lies so closely nearby.

believe me when i say, earth’s gravitational pull became no weightier after Newton explained it to us;  DaVinci’s sails filled no more fluidly after we knew how wind was formed.  long before her forces were understood, mankind built towers and harnessed nature’s forces for good; understanding where it came from was not only secondary... it was  unnecessary to its function and its employment.  (any who might suggest i am dismissing knowledge as useless would be missing my point). we can act immortally long before understanding it origins or fullness.  the healing of our nation requires those who can act with immortality; not as mere mortals.

words from C.S. Lewis in his, ’The Weight of Glory’, “you’ve never met a mere mortal… nations, cultures, arts, civilizations are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. …it is immortals whom we… work with, marry, snub, and exploit.”
 Jul 2016 JT
spysgrandson
to a theater near you
or your flat screen: live murders, usually
mass, sometimes children

sorry, no 3D,
for you see, that might be
too graphic, for some

no actors required
for the wild world's the stage
phone cams abound

stick around, for
a double feature, without
leaving your seat

for before the blood dries,
we'll mute the cries, and show you
the next slick slaughter
two minute poem--no requirements other than it be written in two minutes or less--editing is allowed, but during that process, existing words may be removed, but none added--tenses, number, punctuation may be changed
 Jul 2016 JT
Tyler King
Kids on the brink,
We have all dangled our feet over the edge,
We know the appeal of falling like the backs of our fathers hands,
We flirt with oblivion, leaving our phone numbers on gravestones hoping the other side might call to tell us there is a bed waiting for us somewhere dark, and warm, and quiet
We long for the chance to rest, bones that have seen too many miles, fingers that have danced around calling the police to take us away
We are afraid of what's on the other end of the phone
We are also afraid of the police, but that should go without saying
Kids in urgency-
We become mad,
Mad to escape, to bail forever to some coast or some city street where the light will guide us along, to live under threat of eviction, to stay one step ahead of collapse, to light up a sky somewhere and to have a moment of love that echoes through decades
We become insatiable,
Never fast enough, never loud enough, never high enough, never enough, never enough
We take as much as we can from a night and leave the sun to sort through the wreckage
One more song, one more mile, one more poem, one more kiss, one more ****, one more fight, ond more hit, one more drink, one more revelation, one more flash of extrabrilliance, one more proclamation of fleeting existence from the superheated engine of our ****** heart in the middle of America with nothing to show for ourselves but the length of our hair and the grief we carry and the love of our comrades
Kids in the light-
We all end up home, most nights at least
We all end up alright, most nights at least
We hold each other up when we are strong enough, and never let a day go by without reminding ourselves we love us,
And most nights, that's enough to see us through till morning
 Jul 2016 JT
spysgrandson
blind from birth, she
could tell the difference
between the odor of chrysanthemums and tulips,
and remember her first whiff of both

she could identify
the scent of her brother
in a groping group
of sweaty brutes

she knew
her nose was her biographer
collecting memories, visions
her eyes could not

she studied biology
only to discover her compendium
of smells originated in a space infinitely
smaller than a fly's eye

a few molecules
devoted to identifying ham,
the rich smokey meat
of her first Easter

another clump to help her hold
the faint smell of perfume which lingered
in the room hours after
her mother passed

and who knew what atoms,
what cells, what curse of chemistry
forced her to recall, most of all, the sweet scent
of her newborn's hair,

the few seconds she held him,
after his heart stopped, and they took him
and placed him in a smooth, cold box, where sight,
sound and smell were locked forever
a part of chromosome 11 has been determined to be responsible for the development of much of our sense of smell
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