reminder: sight, sound, smell, taste and physical feeling (touch)

~for yocum~

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without our five senses, what purpose, we serve?

hindered from the verification of our existence,
great then the irony then that the scourge announces
its presence by taking our presents, our very present,
coming cat quiet, announcing itself by thieving two,
our ability to smell and taste, that, only the beginning

later it steals speech.
but no need, nothing left to say or even hear, speech’s reciprocal,
the throat filled with the tube of oxygen containing no words,
some call it breathing, me, I call it a slower, ungentle, silenced dying

the medications are for the pain,
making the eyes sleep a neutered constant in a closeted body,
still, better not to see your own desiccated withering,
but all this, even this,  I could tolerate!

but not to feel your touch,
oh god, give me that!
sensing your touch informs that I, still, I am!
touching you confirms I am greater than my ossified body!

the sense of your skin means this,
that I will live even if death relieves my entirety
but no, touching is forbidden most of all,
and I am inconsolable, gone the greatest pleasure

the first is the last final sense taken,
now it’s too late to turn the other cheek,
I touch myself, but it’s evidence of nothing, cause
now that I’m dead, my only pleasured sense remaining is

my inconsolability,
the last remaining sentry,
the immortal and final
guardian of my heart

Every love song reminds me of him
I imagine us dancing to them.
A montage of us laughing and him
Twirling me in “I love you’s”plays
Keeping to the rhythm.

I want to be his, but we only exist in
My dreams.
I see him when my eyes shut or when I’m staring
Into space while thinking of him
And what could have (be)en.

When I awake or the music stops playing
I try to be happy
But the words are stuck in my head
Following me through the day.

Will I ever get over him or will he always drive me crazy?

He is my guilty pleasure,
The song I hate to love.
Can I bring myself to stop listening?
Or will I always be stuck?

Lost underneath the hood
she made sure
he stopped to ask for directions
then with map in hand
and strapped to the seismograph
she tremored into the land
of eternal sunshine

There's more than what meets the eye
Brittle grass a sign of change
Speaking words that sound good
With their underlying reason.

We all come to a point in our lives,
Where we meet that divide in the woods.
And must make the choice
Of following the path we have had paved for us
Or going deeper into that silent wood
To make our own path in the sticks and stones
And jicama wire.

The latter means nothing
But it sounds good on the tongue
Vibrating in the mouth
And filling the air in front of you.
Saying once more
Jicama wire.

It rolls off the tongue so nicely
And that is what poetry is
An expression of existence
A philosophical realization of the now
And of being.

We write words that may or may not have meaning
And on paper we convey our inner feelings
As best we can, to understand them
For they are in an ancient language
We have long forgotten,
Remembered and understood only in our understanding
Of the now.

So say what feels good,
Choose what path in that wood
Language long lost
Now filling the air around you
As you read the words aloud
And find pleasure
In jicama wire

I'm tired of thinking of you
You and beauty are twins
Glory to my mind
Diving into the depths of my eyes

Oh my kingdom, how can I get to you?
No distance there is
between you and my heart
If you are away, you are my feelings and sences

Whenever I try to get away from you
My awareness rises my longing and longing for you

You are like a magnet
The farther I step away, it brings me back to you

Come and fill my heart with vigor
You are my ultimate joy and pleasure

Come and spread my wings on your wings
And let's be a bird where
all other birds draw love from

Let's fly far and fancy
As love has been created for me and you only

If we and love burn together,
we barley care

"It took me a long time to realize that my partners were having *** with me in part because of the way my body looks, not in spite of the way my body looks."

I'm the kind of poetry that moves you,
I'm your favourite song on a long ride,
I'm a soulful dancer stimulating all your hidden instincts,
and I'm the taste of red wine after the second glass.
...
...
...
...

Good luck resisting me.

To stay away from the bodies of other beings
To keep a safe distance
To deny the pleasure of touch,

As much to make it seem a new concept
We’ve been distancing long before the panic spread

To stay away from feeling other’s feelings
To keep a safe distance
To deny the vulnerability of connection,

Give credit where it’s due
To distance is the best we do.