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Rand J Bennett Feb 2013
In your new life
Or death, whatever—
I don’t care
                         (I care)
I hope everything you encounter is
Vivid/bright/strange and so
Any of your wildest expectations, hope it’s
Lovelier than what lies here, maybe
Understand philosophy, or maybe what it isn’t
And that you visit me sometimes.

Are you untethered by that which weighted you down, are you content?
Or did you go into the darkness with banners raised, tender voice roaring
As once you did when night fell over us, and you sang to clear a path through fear?
I can’t believe in Heaven, or a ghost of you, no; you have
Errands beyond this sphere, and though
Hell might be more of a fair match, you’d drown in drink and discourse until you tired of it.
Because you could dance with the Devil and hand him his *** on a platter,
And you would be fighting with that half hidden smirk the whole time but what, pray tell, comes After

                                                                                                                                                     The fight?
Rand J Bennett Jan 2013
Tonight, I lean against the windowpane,
Crack it open to the sound of January rain
That falls soft in the shadows of trees, and sings.
I inhale, dream of you and the smell of spring;
(I am the roots that grow from the detritus of dead and dying things.)

I want to cut myself on the jagged edge of your mind,
Knees raw and weeping red as I traverse the other side,
I want to scream through the walls of your philosophy,
Until my voice rips ragged, until every sound is profanity.
I want to drag you back from this obscenity.

I want to eat your heavy, burdened heart and offer one fresh,
Torn ripe and ****** straight from the beast’s chest
Into my cupped palms, pounding fuchsia and new: Take it.
Take back the strength it stole from you.

I want to crawl through the collapsed tunnels of your cancered mind,
Down deep chasms where your weary soul withdrew,
Past where you lost your way and dug your grave
To find the opening where sunlight once filtered through;
Then I would squat there, **** love
Until it stuck to your ribs and grew—
Until you glowed with the health of it, until
You rose from dirt or ashes or wherever the ****— and flew.
So claw out from that cave, and let the rain cleanse you.

For this morning it was winter, and you were dead;
But tonight is spring..

Let’s begin again.
Rand J Bennett Dec 2012
And so you have gone;
Gone to the realm where I cannot follow.
Words slip through my mind like
silver fish, flashing through a sieve--
a net that cannot catch your spirit and pull you back
from that dark place where I cannot follow.

And I must remain
Here, in this place where you cannot return:
Godforsaken, all-at-once hated
and most cherished place
Where you once bade me stay: Here,
in this wretched realm where you cannot return.

And so you have sailed
Sailed beyond that ocean, beyond my reach.
Flashed in my life like a silver fish,
slipped through my fingers; I only brushed
the essence of you, I only grazed the surface
of you, now across that ocean, beyond my reach.
Rand J Bennett Dec 2012
During the early
morning, after you
left and my love
glowed soft under
the street lamp, I
reached the lone true
fall of my heart, and
it was less fiery leaves
than blue spotted with pale
yellow. I listen to the
hum & whisper of
the traffic outside the
window; it is like a
song. (How could I not
have seen that?) I
am not thinking about
anything directly, but
am perched on the
edge of it, looking in
on those I love, and I
realize with a quiet
jolt that I am happy.
Is this how it feels to
be dead? Everything
seems lifetimes ago,
and here comes the
point when my eyes
drop. Just for a
moment. If I push
through it, I will wake
with the birds and
that will be that. But
if I fall asleep, maybe I
will catch a glimpse of
the secret they
deciphered in the
in a dream.
Ah, how we taste,
but will never
consume, such
Wrote this one foggy/rainy fall morning. I felt at home in myself, peaceful and calm, and a poem started forming in my head as I was walking across the street back to my apartment. I  wrote this in 7 text message drafts on my phone, tweaking and adding a little each time. This format is how it appears in my phone on my screen. I tried typing it out different ways but this way just stuck.
Rand J Bennett May 2012
I have a lot of thoughts:
I think too much, I think
too little, I think.
I think in circles,
in mazes,
in labyrinths.
I think in tangles and
                                    snarls and
                                                    spikes and
                                                             ­                   blood
Rand J Bennett May 2012
I wish I could unfold my brain like a map
Pluck out memories, savor them like candy,
pinch off fears and regrets, crush them
like blackened, cancerous leaves—
Pick them out; you can have them.

(No no no, I need those
They make me who I am—
who I are — too)

I come in many versions of the truth,
all of them lies.
Which one is your favorite?
Pick it out; you can have it.

(I must have done something wrong in a past life)

I forgot what else I was going to say,
which is why
I wish I could unfold my brain like a map;
Find the monster, expose
him— or is it
her? Would my own kind
betray me? (Yes)

– and squash it like a spider.
That’s what I do. I have a shoe
that I grab, and
before I can think,
before it can blink:
With a silent little prayer—
(for all I know, the poor thing was innocent)
and send him (her)
on her (his)


My brain is not the blooming, bustling metropolis it once was.
(I’m not sure where to put this line.
Why don’t you decide? This is, after all, your poem now.
You picked it out; you can have it.)
I wrote this during a phase where it felt like my inner dialogue was split between 2 different versions of myself, who were always fighting each other. One "version" is in regular text, the other in parentheses. I've used it to a varying degree in a lot of my work, & now & then I still bust out the parentheses to demonstrate conflicting or subconscious "add-in" thoughts in a poem.
Rand J Bennett May 2012
It’s one eleven,
and the night is a newborn without a name.
My thoughts have a clarity,
a purity,
an emptiness,
that is too fragile for daylight.
I am Zen,
I am centered;
[a little left of center, now]                                                      
I am scattered across the dusty facets of my life
like renegade marbles from a child’s palm,
so that I can see every moment like one might
see a city from a parachute.
There is something beautiful about being awake
while the world sleeps,
like I’ve just come through a tunnel from China.
[Which reminds me of the Buddhist symbol
tattooed on your left wrist.]

Like an animal from its cage,
I hang around and chase my tail—
I don’t know what to make of this freedom.
Cartwheels in the halls?
Salsa in the kitchen?
Tiptoe to the bathroom,
coax an ocean from the taps?
Float on a pillowcase, make myself small,
slide under the door to kiss you in your sleep,
and   d  i  s  a  p  p  e  a  r
like the echo of a priest bouncing off sleepy Sunday sighs,
only there to rub from your eyes
when the morning comes,
as the night curls up and dies?
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