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Steven Hutchison May 2012
There is a part of you in me that wants to run;
A fear of sameness that once drove you from the sand.

There is a part of you I am looking for in my chin;
A boldness that lingers somewhere hidden under my teeth.

There are parts of you crammed into my shoulders;
A stubbornness filling up nearly every doorway.

There is a part of you in me that is smiling;
A pride like when you call me your son.

There are parts of me that are singing,
I am certain it is your father's song.
Day 29
Steven Hutchison Jul 2013
Silently the composer crept
Through wheat fields blanched in silver moons;
Running his fingers through stalks of hair,
Keeping quiet the secrets of the night.
He ran to the lightbulbs glowing in the dew
And held in his mouth the owl's conversation.
In his nostrils swirled the reminiscent songs
Of honeysuckle and melon.
Daylight broke with him rolling in the dust
On the old wooden library steps.
He wiped the stares from their faces with a folded cloth
And tucked it neatly in his pocket.
He ran, with the tail of the wind and his bounty in tow,
Back to his humble beginnings
And emptied his pockets, his nostrils, his soul,
Onto the keys of a poorly-tuned piano.
Steven Hutchison Apr 2013
frozen in time he was quite the spectacle
thick rimmed frames traced rigid lines
projected from kaleidoscope eyes
sharp with the corners of unknown dimensions
caught hot handed
both in expectation and reminisce
so awkwardly present

most nights
he spins fairytales
double-dipping moons in molten watches
skewered with his arms
      these wooden poles
stirring the coals buried in ashes
he steps lightly.stomps
dances with the rings of saturn
then rolls like thunder
chasing Zeus's sore words
zig-zagging down to earth
ooohhhh…..
he may not melt hearts with that shoodoop
  that bebop
but they break for his habit of
making promises

he who holds time in the cave below his tongue
which now juts left off the reef of his lip
slip into
trip - - - skip
fall.into.this.
go mad for the pitch of his sweat
glaring at the spotlight
Dalí
painting worlds in the moments
between your ears and soul
he is god to their populations
and their hymns excite
rhythms ignite
visions of hard candy
tumbling your teeth smooth as river stones

he does not belong in a gallery
no high tipping wine sipping city slicker big wig
should ever feel comfortable in his blast radius
he makes bombs from tribal instruments
wigwam concoctions
set to test resting souls for pulses
paradiddle defibrillator
triplet stent for arteries
he is tall
and now thin
pressed against the wall as if under interrogation

splitting breath from its carbon
asphyxiated by the frame
he spells his words with motion
I find him
mute
Steven Hutchison Mar 2012
Pray.
Fold your hands or raise them empty.
True worship is in the sand.
It's knowing your coasts.
Knowing where you stop and where the Mystery begins.
Setting invisible standards on scales
you will never step foot on yourself
and being completely ok with that.
Empty hands are easy to hold on with,
so he squeezes with all his might.
Tighter with each missed meal,
tighter still with each cold night.
He holds on to the stories of Sundays,
of Lion's dens and wooden boats.
So that in the darkness of poverty's grave,
He prays.
Staying true to that thing with feathers in his soul,
he finds laughter amid storms
and wrestles smiles through the pain.
He grows.
From some invisible seed planted some time ago.
Grandmama's kitchen was a regular glass-walled greenhouse
And there wasn't anybody around
that could look themselves in the mirror
should one day they take to throwing stones.
Pray,
Mama told him.
So he closed his eyes and spoke.
Truth to remove the cold,
bread of spirit to fill his hunger.
But when he opened his eyes he felt pain in his side,
so he prayed again.
Knees on the ground,
he expected the earth to sprout cheerio trees,
the clouds to rain blankets,
and Grandmama to come around the next corner.
Such was the mustard seed.
Often times he slept after prayer.
Not always of peace.
Sometimes he was afraid his eyes
would see the same world when he opened them.
So he held them shut and saw Grandmama in dreams.
Pray,
Mama told him,
for patience and peace.
His empty hands still raised,
Still empty,
he gazed into the rafters of the one place he felt safe.
Singing songs of Sundays
and praying like Friday nights.
He felt light wrap around him,
rainbows he thought,
because he liked the colors,
and he learned while he was hungry
to pray.
The 3rd of 3 sketches of youth in poverty I wrote entitled 'Dance.Sing.Pray'
Steven Hutchison Mar 2014
There is a quiet conversation
we hold between our ribs;
the dialogue of flesh and spirit.
Most have heard it once or twice.
Some don't know its timbre.
Others find themselves in the woods,
knee deep in a creek's cold waters,
and their bones begin to echo
the angels in the wind.
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
Reach
Beyond my dim reflections,
Around the imperfections,
Down the hallways of my heart.

Reach
Because I feel like I am sinking
Beneath this sea of thinking
There's no one with arms that long.

I don't even know what I need to know
To believe You are who You say You are
And that everything's going to turn out grand.
I need to see Your hand.
Reach
Day 6
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
There are times I wish you would throw out the canvas.
                                        Be as reckless as I love you to be.
Let loose the hold you have fixed on this earth and plunge
               Head-long into the ocean, daring yourself to breathe.
Brush your fingers across the coral until your voice starts to bleed,
                       Then paint the sunken whale bones with your song.
                  Drink chestfuls of love until sobriety loses meaning.
        Tell the world your secrets while it sleeps in your arms.
  Speak with the grace of battering rams and truncheons.
                                       Stretch your mind until it weeps.
                                             Collect these tears in bottles,
                                               Break them on the streets.
          I would hang your soul on my refrigerator door
                                            Any given day of the week.
Day 4
Steven Hutchison Apr 2015
When is a word of power
Holding the keys to time
Unlocking doors to limitless wealth
Amassed in the houses of centuries
Our future is naught without us
We are naught without our past
We are not without our past
Calamity follows the unbelieving
Those current keepers
Blinded by trend
Those content to exist on a page
Without ever reading the book
Memory is rite
Remembering is prayer
We are disjointed from our God
In a life purely contemporary
We forget more than we are living
Writhing in the deficit
Slaved to the moment
And the evils of its quarantine
History is sacred
To be held with gentle hands
Revered and cherished
For its honesty
Steven Hutchison Apr 2015
Stoic
Seismic
The earth unfolds
His rubber band tight
Spinning out of control
Never even flushed
But the ripple of a vein
Traces thoughts he forgot
To bury with the pain

Grinding
Teeth
Tectonic plague
He’s got electric eyes
High voltage rage
Wraps it all in a smile
That he’s sewed shut tight
So the magma doesn’t peek
When he says “all right”
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
Resonate my veins
Setting my love in motion
Your satin voice
Finding frequencies of truth
Day 7
Steven Hutchison May 2013
We have crossed paths without speaking before,
but this is very different.
I travelled as far as Riverside
before my heart went chasing your gravity.
I know.
I just haven't stopped loving you yet.
Please return the package to sender.
Steven Hutchison Apr 2013
And then it was time to live again.

After so many tombstone day dreams
and chills from winter's breath,

After closing living room shutters
and doubting fragile steps,

After plucking the penultimate feather
from Hope's avian breast,

Spring came round that corner swinging,
and what was there to defend?
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
Words:
Road blocks
On highways
Of thought.
Plato dreams
Of speaking
Utopia.
The cave grows
                   dim.
Day 14
Steven Hutchison Apr 2013
Don't get me wrong;
I count it all blessing,
This one track mind,
The endless company.
I always deliver what they come seeking:
That sharp taste of thrill in the ceiling of their mouths.

I suppose every life has its ups and downs.
Each person their silver,
Each person their cloud.
But I have inhaled the heavens deep into my lungs
And they have made me sick.
They drift, seemingly, wherever they please.
I can tell you this:
I have never tasted the same cloud twice.
Each second they grow.
With each gust they float
Away from the moment's cares and all its trivialities.

I can still hear them,
Well-meaning enough to make me doubt my sanity,
'You are built for speed' -now go where we tell you.
'You are full of surprises' -that we planned meticulously.
I am stuck in this groove and it is nothing I can dance to.
The DJ has fallen asleep
And I am slowly blending into the wallpaper.

The first time I heard them screaming
It was like wedding cake and cannons,
Like listening to your son speak his first word
And recognizing it as your name.
They love what I do.
I hate how I do it.

I dream of stretching my long body across the sky,
Taking flight like a paper dragon,
Chasing rooftops and mountains,
Rolling down hills as soft as a mother's cheek.
There are words I long to write on the horizon
In script as wide as it is deep.
There is so much more i have seen than i have smelled.
There are screams I can give you
That wave their arms like white flags,
Waiting to be plucked from gardens
Just outside my reach.

I have been burying my anguish in the hearts of wooden trusses.
They push back against me when I am feeling down.
'Chin up, there go those screams again.'
They taste nothing like cake.
One more 3 minute episode.
I have been showing you reruns of smiles for the past two years,
Have you noticed?
But who is the servant to question the master?
I will keep my head down,
Drive the track I've been given,
And pretend I still enjoy the sunrise.

I wish I could keep from sleeping.
The dissonance of waking to the same routine
Is Schoenberg to my ears.
Every night it's the same thing:
My eyelids kiss this day goodbye
And it is some glorious tomorrow,
When I will finally get my chance
To scream.
Steven Hutchison Apr 2013
Row, row, row
your heavy heart,
tired arms.

Row your doubts,
your fears,
your tongue,
should it ever pronounce
your failure.

Row strong,
row steady,
to the rhythm of the moon.

Stir the surface of the stream
and watch the ripples
dance and play.

Life is but a dream,
they say.
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
Run River Run
for your life
for ours
for farmers' daughters
for future sailors
for explorers
for the dead
for valleys
for power
for stories and lies
for nakedness
Run River Run
for your life
for ours
for history
for health
for the money
for the living
for fish
for fires
for ears and eyes
for necessity
Run River Run
for your life
for ours
Run from your mother and never go home.
Run and keep the wind company.
Run River Run
with your pockets full of gold
for your life
for ours
Day 3
Steven Hutchison Apr 2015
In the park there is a bench
Polished coffee metal planks
The inscription reads:
“In loving memory of Alan Seltman.”
And speaks its invitation
With arms wider than I can be
The tree buds are waking
And the breeze finds equilibrium
With the dimming sun’s kiss
I sit
If not for the grumbling of my feet
Or the fleeting picturesque
Then because Alan should be remembered
As one who always offered rest
Steven Hutchison Apr 2015
Everyone has ugly
We are blessed who do not see it
But when we do
We do
You did
And the words wouldn’t come fast enough
My story dried up
Leaving cacti in the silence
Sharp to ***** a wayward tongue
My head spinning with strategy
I was busy framing pictures
When you threw me away
It’s not that I lacked an explanation
I’ve just learned to tread softly
In landmine conversations
Your eyes were done with me
Far sooner than you admit
I lied to let hope live
I hoped the lie would live
But ugly is as buoyant
As you are gone
And lies are always dense
Prompt was to write a poem about the life of a crumpled ball of paper. I chose the perspective of a scrapped poem.
Steven Hutchison May 2015
Strange enough to say that I am with you
Stranger still to hold you in my arms
The planets don’t align this way on purpose
I wonder if the moon surprises Mars
With serenades and unexpected flowers
With notes to say I’ll miss you while you’re gone
I hope you’re startled right into my orbit
Delight me every eve and every dawn
Steven Hutchison Jan 2014
For each word that never made it past my teeth
-harsh critics-
I am sorry
I told you I loved you last night in bed
and all you heard was my breathing
-waves on your shore-
I am sorry

For each step I should have taken that was frozen in my legs
-stone pillars-
I am sorry
I ran to the edge of the earth for you
where I heard the lilies were blooming
-empty vase-
I am sorry

For each song that suffocated in my hollows
-white noise-
I am sorry
I scored you a serenade for clarinet and bassoon
and your shutters heard nothing
-white noise-
I am sorry

For each quiver of my hands that has held me
chained to the anvils of fear
For the confidence I lack and the love I have not given
-myself-
I am sorry
For times I held truth by the throat underwater
and prayed you wouldn't notice the splashing
For those days I went sleep walking
-through prayers-
I am sorry
For the stability I cradle while sitting on dreams
singing songs we all know the words to
the song we've each written verses to
12 bars on each wall of this blue cage that we sing through
For the times we don't fight
For the times that we mean to
For the injustices that steal the peace from our silent nights
For the riotless streets
For thriving inequalities
For microphones and stages still wet with my ego
For the silence I keep
-when the world is listening-
I am sorry

Shake me
from these paralytic dreams
from the cloud of ideas and fantasy
-what is art but a landing?-

Shake me
make me rise up and face the music
climb out of myself and breathe
-what is prayer but respiration?-

Shake me
until my apologies are gone
and your house is full of flowers
and your ears are full of songs
and your heart is filled with this love of mine
your quivering hands shook free

Shake me
until I see beauty in truth
and truth in what we are made to be
In response to Walter Mitty
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
She laughs.
With a smile and a sound
She paints the walls with sunshine.

When she laughs,
There is no tomorrow,
Her voice giving life to hallowed now.

She laughs when
The smell of love and music
Is stitching its kiss in the sky.

She laughs.
With eyes like no others I've found,
And leaves it all behind.
Day 22
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
There is a shell I have never broken.
I watched you check your mail.
I had already found my keys.
I waited.
You waited.
You knew there would be no mail.
You watched me scrounge for my keys.
There is a shell you have never broken.
Day 10
Steven Hutchison Apr 2015
He is a fool
who, when the sky is lit
in the morning dew,
scowls at Spring
and shrugs.
She is immutable.
Brimming with chances
and hard won charm,
not a tremor in her voice.
She is singing.
Always singing
that honeysuckle song.
He is a fool
who misconstrues his gravity.
Ignorant of his orbit,
trying to tilt the world.
She is unruffled,
and he will roll off her back,
smooth as the mallard,
washing his face
in the sunrise pond.
Steven Hutchison Mar 2012
Sing.
Mama's voice chimes bells.
Daddy's words raise hell.
The spell of music speaks doors into the night.
She steps onto the moonlight highway.
The melodies frozen in her ears from before
thaw and play their instruments
bringing life to dream-singers.
It's no coincidence
she was born premature.
It seems everything in her life has come early,
so she set her clocks ahead
and listened to the bells chime,
something like mama's voice.
Her home is a choice,
but not hers.
Instead she stirs the *** of muses
mixing salve for all the bruises,
not to her skin, he's not that stupid,
but for her bleeding heart
and broken mind.
Sing.
Purse your lips and cover your ears.
Conjure a tune from down in your belly
and make **** sure you guard all the exits.
Close your eyes and let the medicine
of cello strings and cymbals
back up the voice of your bones.
Don't let the melody presume to take words.
Your mind is caught up, trapped by the pain.
Just let soul **** tumble and fall
and rise, and climb and stall
and leave it all behind.
Let mama's screams blend in with crescendos.
Let go of this world.
Dip your toes in the timbre of streams.
Hands over your ears, don't forget!
Don't forget your form.
Forget the violent storms.
And if you're spun,
spin into helices.
Your DNA twisting into treble clefs,
hug the transformation close.
Who knows? You may sprout wings.
Sing;
If only a half-hearted whisper.
Sing yourself to sleep tonight.
And hope mama's voice still chimes in the morning.
The 2nd of the 3 sketches of youth in poverty I wrote entitled 'Dance.Sing.Pray.'
Steven Hutchison Aug 2013
Sink into me.
Breathe slowly.
We'll burn the clocks
and drink our music.
Rest your wandering feet.
I've built you this home
of bone and song
and wrapped it in my skin.
Tell me your heart can beat for me.
Sink into me
until we forget all our fences.
Steven Hutchison Jul 2012
Sweet sleep
do come.
Rest within these weary eyes.
Rest and let tomorrow come.
Broken and torn,
tattered beauty.
Steven Hutchison May 2012
Sometimes I fear that your arms will pass through me.
With the wisp of uncertainties,
that you will reach for comfort
and find the wind lonely.

Sometimes I fear that one day you won't hear me.
With the clamor of fools,
that you will cup your ear
and hear nothing but indistinct drowning.

Sometimes I fear that one day you might see me.
With the drab of a pauper,
that you will look intently
and see an impoverished soul.
Day 30
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
On April 26th, 372 B.C. Plato was the first man to inflict injury upon his own dreams.
Not the forms casting shadows in his cave, his literal dreams.
At 6:35 a.m. the impish snarl of a water ***** crept into his Utopia of an
all-you-can-eat gyro cart overturned at the corner of his street and roused him
back to consciousness. The ingenious design of his Clepsydra quite obviously complete,
Aristotle came running with the awkward stride of a sleepwalking adolescent
to see what his master had done. When he arrived he saw flying,
two pots of water, an air-compressing submersible chamber and one water ***** reed.
Aristotle quickly collected the shattered pieces and noted
that this broken pottery was more real than time itself.

On September 21st, 712 A.D. a small village just outside the boundaries of
Chang'an, China came dangerously close to taking the life of the palace
astronomer/inventor/sleepyhead. Crowding around the door of Yi Xing, the
townspeople tore their robes and wailed for him to put a stop to the
incessant clanging. Xing, who had apparently overslept and was still
clinging to morsels of fading dreams about his young mistress, stuffed his
face into his pillow, muttering eureka, after first having chucked the
two clay pots, handful of stones and plate-sized gong out the front door,
much to the amusement of the assembly of drooping eyelids and torn pajamas.

In the year 1235 A.D. tortured residents of Baghdad began associating their
daily and nightly times for prayer with the ringing of their eardrums from
uninvited chimes.

In 1493 St. Mark's Clock-tower polluted the once-pure Venetian air with
hourly reminders that we are all yet one hour closer to our inevitable death
and the priests of the day called it humility.

Levi Hutchins of New Hampshire turned to a pine cabinet, brass clock and
mechanical gears in 1787, and for the first time gave himself the ability to
choose when he would hate the morning.

In 1847, French inventor Antoine Redier began making money off of people's
early morning auditory masochism.

Lew Wallace, the morning after completing his masterpiece novel "Ben Hur,"
awoke with a fiendish beeping in his ear and proceeded to invent the paradox
of the snooze button.

In Spring of 1942 the war in Europe raged and all U.S. alarm clock production ceased.

In the Spring of 1943 well-rested factory men, confronted by their foreman
upon arrival at 9:15, erupted the words "my alarm clock is broken,"
forever placing the excuse in the deep pockets of slackers
world-wide.

To all of these respected men of our history
Who have thought with their hands to create
The foundation of a society drowning in Starbucks,
I wish to express my sincerest ingratitude.

I lie awake in bed at night,
Licking the bitter taste of reality from my cheeks,
In the company of Plato, Lew Wallace and Yi Xing,
Wondering what dreams will be stolen from me.
Day 20
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
Stories spin webs that catch time as it passes.

Hours wrapped in spider's silk wait to be devoured.

Let me tell you a tale,

Some other time to consume your time,

A tale that will leave you hungry.

Indiana Jones never finds his life empty.

He will live forever on gifted hours,

Given by those who need.

They will keep on needing,

Trading their lives for stories of others'.
Day 13
Steven Hutchison Apr 2013
Suffer the stories to come unto me
and I will rewrite their endings,
heal them from their self-reliance,
and teach them new words to sing.
the melody will find itself
wherever their tongues may take them.
tell me a story, child,
of the roads your feet have seen,
and the tears your pillow collected,
because I'll bet they match my own.
I have built a you a home,
with stairwells that turn
and chandeliers and wind chimes,
where your smile paints the walls
a different color each day.
come and I will live in you,
and you will live in me.
Steven Hutchison Nov 2014
Strange pirates, we, who burry our treasure
In the land-locked hollow of a frozen November.
And the preacher's voice, thick with that solemn charm,
Is dizzying in our ears.

Strange pirates, we, who sail without anchor,
Wind-whipped and weary of the salty flavor.
And each swell that beckons with open arms
Is a reckoning to our years.

Strange pirates, we, without pillage or plunder,
Surround ourselves with natural wonders.
Each smile, each laugh, each body warm,
Is a borrowed blessing held dear.

Strange pirates, we, who, when our bodies grow cold,
Call out to all our kindred souls
And ask nothing more than to be remembered
As our memories turn to gold.

And each bell that tolls in a land-locked whenever
Will remind us of treasure for all our years.
In memory of Jim Gremminger, 12/7/1932 - 11/15/2014
Steven Hutchison Jul 2012
Strike quickly
evening is looming
press down your fear
till it burns in your belly
hunger you will call it
strike quickly
the air is wet with intoxication
drink down your trembling
till it hums in your chest
music you will call it
strike quickly
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
A stripper does not command the same feelings
when there is no music
when there is rain
when there is **** beneath their feet
when there is no stage
when they are
naked.

Step off stage,
peel their eyes from your skin.
Layer after layer
of pervert,
of bloodshot,
wipe the trails of loathing
they leave behind.
Take a cotton swab to your navel
to dry your mother's tears.
These are nothing you haven't seen.

Find glass where it is not broken,
Break it.
Pull on your face until you can see your cracks
echoed in kaleidoscope reflections.
Let your tongue swipe your teeth
and slurp down the dollar bill smile.
Chase it with the cat that was
swimming in your eyes.
Imagine what you would look like dead.
Make silly faces in broken mirrors.
Turn away before they fade.

Shake your head in your hands
until music flies from your ears.
Shake harder.
Spill the hypnotic equilibrium they sold you
Watch the room start to sway.
Sit down.
Stand up.
Find your legs.
*****.
Heave,
feeling there is much more poison
than will ever come out.
Cough into the air,
knowing your hands are sacred.
Wipe your memory on someone else's sleeve.

Walk to the door.
Let your profession slip from your shoulders.
Become human.
Become blending into the crowd.
Become busy with something in your hands.
Open the door, then your umbrella.
Do not breathe.
Take five steps forward and wait to exhale
until your hear the door slam behind you.
It isn't healthy to mix the sight of rain
with the smell of broken pianos.

Walk forward.
Out of your shoes.
Wince as the concrete speaks to your heel.
Bathe your toes in the nearest puddle.
Let your umbrella slide from the warmth of your hand.
Watch it fly.
Notice the people.
Move your sight from the ground
and rest it on their chins.
Realize you're wearing no clothes.
Pull the confidence down and off of your walk
and turn to the closest alley.

Step off stage.
Peel their eyes from your soul.
Become an individual.
Forget "the people."
Notice the persons
wrapped to their noses in professions and smiles,
confidence and ignorance pouring from their eyes,
heads tucked low beneath charcoal umbrellas.
Smile.
Without trying when you hear the clouds roar.

Stop when you find there are more walls than bodies
and the smell of ***** is stronger than your own.
Forget your smell.
Open your mouth.
Forget your taste.
Bend your knees and raise your head.
Close your eyes and feel it rain.
Scream.
Strip the religion from your prayers.
Scream the ineffable confession.
Forget your body.
Drink the rain.

there is no music
there is rain
there is **** beneath your feet
there is no stage
you are
naked.
Day 23
Steven Hutchison Jul 2013
Let's play strip poetry
until we're no more
than two souls
on Bojangles' shoes
tapping morse code messages
to the listening stars,
and should heaven ever hear us
we'll craft music for clothing
and wrap ourselves in symphonies
of the modern night.
Steven Hutchison Sep 2013
I can see the numbers rolling back behind your eyes.
Never know what the slots will bring.
When I told you I liked surprises
I didn't mean I'd like to find you spilling your mathematics
all over the bedroom sheets
counting how many times you could divide yourself
from yourself
and the languages spoken by mumbling mathematicians
always failing to find the difference
between their science and the love you needed.

I was 7 digits from talking you down.
You felt you were born 6 feet too high.
There are 5 times I can remember you laughing
the last of those was on the 4th of July.
     How can anyone believe they are free
     when we are bought at this calendar price?
You were laughing at the irony of the time it took you to say it.
Silly woman,
time is not made of numbers,
but of songs.

I replay that memory at least 3 times a night.
Your 2 shoes are the only music I'd still like to hear playing
I am currently discovering that 1 is not a lonely number.
I have spent cozy evenings
cuddled up with the burden you left behind.
It is colder than I remember you
and always seems to squeeze my neck
just a little too tight.
You wanted to become 0,
ignoring my side of this equation,
but before you left you swallowed my equilibrium whole.
I fell down bell curve cliffs
until my words themselves became improbabilities.
My love was more than average,
I mean...
I miss you.
I mean...
You're so **** stupid.
I mean...
I loved you.
I mean...
I love you.

If you and I are numbers
we are easily replaceable,
replicable as science has always wanted us to be.
I am telling you now
that no one else fits.
I should have told you that a few days ago
when I had more of you to stand by
than fragments of memories
each one passing, blaspheming your sum.
Steven Hutchison Jul 2013
You invite my melancholy out for a stroll.
It declines, as you knew it would.
Your wink: the absence of sun.

Somewhere between us is a Rhodes piano.
Roll with my eyes into the beyond.
Your speech: a muted drum.
Steven Hutchison Mar 2014
there is a cool fire in the heart of you
under the sands of grace
where the cacti dance with elephants
to songs of threes and two’s

I am candlesticks and moons
you are more than boys and cattle
I watched your smile paint stars
with envy
the greenest of any jungle I’ve seen
Steven Hutchison May 2013
I guess I sort of started planning a life with you
and the hook that hurts the most
is the one swallowed the deepest
but I don't really know how far down it went
because I didn't know I went down that far
I have spent nights with search lights and helicopters
trying to figure out where I love you from
and the closest I've come is a pocket tucked next to my soul
maybe that's why you said you needed space
because I am in the business of swallowing hooks
and you're in the habit of running
Steven Hutchison Sep 2012
I am swaying in circles:
knees locked, eyes glazing,
tasting each second as it splits on my chin.
there is time on my shirt sleeves.
there are dancers in my grin.
there is the semblance of someone else
looking within.

I am stitching myself
seamlessly, one-handed,
into the fibers of horizons and moons.
there is a music of planets.
there is *** in its tune.
there is the new-green innocence of a bride
and indefatigable groom.
Steven Hutchison May 2013
Tomorrow I will write.
Tonight I will bleed,
Silently,
With a stomach full of table saws.
Not actual bleeding in any way, and I don't condone violence. ****** why did I post this?
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
He has torn down the temple.
Stones lie scattered across the sand.
In his anger he has cursed God
And stormed into His dwelling,
Making mockery of angels and eating sacred bread.
He has torn down the temple.
She is lying scattered on her bedroom floor,
Drenched in the paralyzing stench of incense,
Her ears bleed with sacrilege.
The curtain is torn, is torn.
Day 11
Steven Hutchison Jul 2013
It's as if someone has stopped the music
and no one has noticed but me.
This quiet is ugly, inside and out,
and smells of rotting orchestras.

That is a theatrical lie,
and an attempt to make you miss me.

The truth is, everything looks the same.
I hear the familiar jaded hum of living
and it smells like coffee and cinnamon.
I am hating the thought
of fading into a life without you.
Break my heart quickly
or love me 'til death
brings that quiet I lied about hearing.
Steven Hutchison Oct 2012
The best poems
are never shared.
They are written
on the insides of our eyelids
and each one reads
'You are beautiful.'
I cannot speak your poem.
I am still learning to pronounce my own.
The language of the God
who penned the phrase
is foreign to my wandering tongue.
But I read it.
Over and over again while I sleep,
stumbling over the words,
making mince of all His poetry.
Steven Hutchison Apr 2015
How beautiful the borrower
How happy is her lot
Chains that bind to property
Are left behind to rot
How beautiful the borrower
Whose house is not her own
Who cares not for the daily bread
Except that from the throne
How beautiful the borrower
Who has nothing to give
But shares what she’s been given
By the Lord of all that is
How beautiful the borrower
What peace is in her mind
Without the need for worry
She is ever only kind
Steven Hutchison Apr 2013
The air is charged with eminence.
Red-bellied birds lose their song in the wind.
Just when will the sky crack open?
When will the screaming turn to tears?
Send the drummers running
and, before their sticks hit the ground,
give face to wide-eyed fears.

I can smell you from my window:
Amalgamation of mushrooms and clover.
Just when will you crack me open?
When will my primal state lie bare?
Strip me of city sophistication
and, before the drummers come running,
wash me well beyond my years.
Steven Hutchison Dec 2016
It’s cold and dimly lit, this hall of everyday.
My fingers trace atoms, material and unforgiving.
I pause at the door, inconspicuous, but familiar.
Beneath it myth and whim cast shadows on the floor.
I can smell the gardens of wisdom and lore
and almost believe it a memory.
I don’t remember when I lost the key.
Good things are never seen going, but gone.
Steven Hutchison Mar 2014
A clumsy goodnight
left me chasing the words
that fell from my lips
to the pavement.
What I meant to say
was I hate it when you leave me
before I've found a way to make you smile,
before I've found the angle to hold you from
so you won't see the knives they are throwing.
I'm not saying they won't be there,
because there will be knives as long as we're breathing.
I just can't rest knowing that you can't either.
I want peace for your mind
and a better goodbye
to form itself quickly
on my tongue.
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
Crawling,
nimble fingers curl,
green tongues speaking,
the prairie grass buckles
under weight of the fickle wind.
Cool weather and farm dust
thrown from its right hand.
A solid left hook
burning holes in its pocket.
Day 15
Steven Hutchison Dec 2012
The reason that mutes the murmur of my lips
for the silence no one near me forgets
is the ******* of my heart.
Without knowing,
of what would it speak?
Filled with words,
the hollow cap peeks
into the muscles and bone.
Flesh for a kingdom,
thought for a throne.
The heaving poet sleeps
not sound,
not silent,
but there at 3:15.
Spilling his spiraling
tic toc dreams
between the pallid sheets.
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
There is no poet like a knife.
There is no rhyme like dance.
The first time I held your hand in mine
Was the only love poem I have given you.
Fists full of dirt
Beads of sweat on skin
I have understood God the most when it rains.
When elements collide and my face becomes water.
There is no profanity like absence.
There is no obscenity like callous.
The last time I shook my father's hand
Is the only praise I have known.
Day 12
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