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“People talk so recklessly when they talk about other people,”
Roman said,
talking about someone else.

He placed his coffee on the table
and continued his convoluted thought,
“There is a finite amount of space in our brains,
and I just think that we need to be more responsible
with what we fill it with.

We could be meditating on peace and love,
but instead we cease thinking
the second we start talking about other people.”

“Do you really think that’s true?”
his interlocutor challenged,
“I mean,
it’s not like I’m actively harming anyone
by opening my mouth.
Speech is only harmful to people
when they let it be harmful to them.”

“Are your nerves to blame, then,
for the pain you feel when I punch you in the arm?”
Roman responded,

"Is your skin left with any other option but to separate
when someone marries a blade to your stomach?

Words are weapons, Friend,
and until you understand that,
I’m not sure you know what love is.”

“Words as weapons makes for bullet holes in everyone.
How am I to speak at all if I am paralyzed,
scared of speaking?”

“Words are wonder, too, Friend.
And until you understand that,
I’m not sure you know what love is.”

“Words as wonder might make them complicit.
How am I to speak at all if I am to paralyze them,
lackadaisical and lazy?”

“Affirmation does not inspire apathy.
Wonder inspires movement.
Wonderful words are seeds in a garden in the first place.
Love grows from the water that is the act of listening.”

“Words as affirmation might make them think
they are loved the way they are,
needless to change."

“Exactly,"
said Roman
just an experiment with two people: a privileged guy named Roman and a nameless interlocutor
Chris Saitta Jun 14
Fall to me, all you streets of Rome,
With your embrowned oils from torched walls and breccia of shadows,
The pizzicato of stairways and afternoon slowly closed
Like the thick, leathery-echo from this book of all roads.

Fallen, smoldering empire of storefronts and back-shop heirlooms,
Your lupine hills unbound with milk of cur in the wind and woods,
To your fallow fields rowed deep by a conquest of oars,
To the deepest silence and soot-muted oneness of Pompeii,
And a sky that is an ancient coin, without worth,
But still rubbed smooth at the edges by overfond lovers.
Yes, more Rome.

For a slide video of this and other poems, please check out my Instagram page at chrissaitta or my Tumblr page at Chris-Saitta.
Chris Saitta May 24
The dead lie like Rome,
Like toppled sunshine in stone,
From a boy who had blown
Into the seashell of the Forum,
Heard back in restoning, the alley of home,
The narrow, basket-flowered angiportum…
But, lips too strong, let out unknown
The stone-witherings of Medusa
And the bone dust of empire.
tayarose Feb 13
I see you across the room
Dark shaggy hair, light brown skin like caramel, light brown doe eyes
I could probably get lost in
I see you across the room
When you smile it's purely innocence
It's like you light the whole room, Maybe I'm the only one who notice
When i see you
Im not sure how to feel
I can't even say a word to you
I  just see you across the room
Whit Howland Sep 2
Though
tempted
to write about
how much I miss you

I want to create
from a place
of
enlightenment

songs of
loss
misery
sadness

are not
for those who
flew
all night

into
tomorrow
but for ones
who refuse

to
make
the
trip

© Whit Howland 2019
Not so much the message, but about the function of poetry in general.
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