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One of these days
you'll find that
I have finally
picked myself up
brushed off your words
and moved on
Because I deserve
better
ten
icouldneverquite
get you down on
paper. iknewyour
favorite band and
favoritemovie and
what you sounded
like when you slept
but ididnotknow how
to put the thumping of
yourheart againstthe rain
or the gravel of your voice
echoing in that soft spot right
below my ear into words. there
were gold ribbons streaming
from your hands always
always (weren't  there)
at least i think there were.
i only painted your outline once
in orange on a piece of cardboard
but it didn't fill my apartment the
way your laugh did so i covered
it with yellow rosebuds and
threw it in the dumpster
on my way to work.
It's the middle of the night
and I haven't figured out
if these feelings are lying
or if I'm only honest in the dark.

I feel alone every time
I slow down enough to feel
and I'm craving the feeling
your body beside me brings.

I'm not allowed to have you
and it's breaking every bone
inside my aching soul
at least that's my 1am feeling.
10/03/14
I

In that November off Tehuantepec,
The slopping of the sea grew still one night
And in the morning summer hued the deck

And made one think of rosy chocolate
And gilt umbrellas. Paradisal green
Gave suavity to the perplexed machine

Of ocean, which like limpid water lay.
Who, then, in that ambrosial latitude
Out of the light evolved the morning blooms,

Who, then, evolved the sea-blooms from the clouds
Diffusing balm in that Pacific calm?
C'etait mon enfant, mon bijou, mon ame.

The sea-clouds whitened far below the calm
And moved, as blooms move, in the swimming green
And in its watery radiance, while the hue

Of heaven in an antique reflection rolled
Round those flotillas. And sometimes the sea
Poured brilliant iris on the glistening blue.

                        II

In that November off Tehuantepec
The slopping of the sea grew still one night.
At breakfast jelly yellow streaked the deck

And made one think of chop-house chocolate
And sham umbrellas. And a sham-like green
Capped summer-seeming on the tense machine

Of ocean, which in sinister flatness lay.
Who, then, beheld the rising of the clouds
That strode submerged in that malevolent sheen,

Who saw the mortal massives of the blooms
Of water moving on the water-floor?
C'etait mon frere du ciel, ma vie, mon or.

The gongs rang loudly as the windy booms
Hoo-hooed it in the darkened ocean-blooms.
The gongs grew still. And then blue heaven spread

Its crystalline pendentives on the sea
And the macabre of the water-glooms
In an enormous undulation fled.

                        III

In that November off Tehuantepec,
The slopping of the sea grew still one night
And a pale silver patterned on the deck

And made one think of porcelain chocolate
And pied umbrellas. An uncertain green,
Piano-polished, held the tranced machine

Of ocean, as a prelude holds and holds,
Who, seeing silver petals of white blooms
Unfolding in the water, feeling sure

Of the milk within the saltiest spurge, heard, then,
The sea unfolding in the sunken clouds?
Oh! C'etait mon extase et mon amour.

So deeply sunken were they that the shrouds,
The shrouding shadows, made the petals black
Until the rolling heaven made them blue,

A blue beyond the rainy hyacinth,
And smiting the crevasses of the leaves
Deluged the ocean with a sapphire blue.

                        IV

In that November off Tehuantepec
The night-long slopping of the sea grew still.
A mallow morning dozed upon the deck

And made one think of musky chocolate
And frail umbrellas. A too-fluent green
Suggested malice in the dry machine

Of ocean, pondering dank stratagem.
Who then beheld the figures of the clouds
Like blooms secluded in the thick marine?

Like blooms? Like damasks that were shaken off
From the loosed girdles in the spangling must.
C'etait ma foi, la nonchalance divine.

The nakedness would rise and suddenly turn
Salt masks of beard and mouths of bellowing,
Would--But more suddenly the heaven rolled

Its bluest sea-clouds in the thinking green,
And the nakedness became the broadest blooms,
Mile-mallows that a mallow sun cajoled.

                        V

In that November off Tehuantepec
Night stilled the slopping of the sea.
The day came, bowing and voluble, upon the deck,

Good clown... One thought of Chinese chocolate
And large umbrellas. And a motley green
Followed the drift of the obese machine

Of ocean, perfected in indolence.
What pistache one, ingenious and droll,
Beheld the sovereign clouds as jugglery

And the sea as turquoise-turbaned *****, neat
At tossing saucers--cloudy-conjuring sea?
C'etait mon esprit batard, l'ignominie.

The sovereign clouds came clustering. The conch
Of loyal conjuration *******. The wind
Of green blooms turning crisped the motley hue

To clearing opalescence. Then the sea
And heaven rolled as one and from the two
Came fresh transfigurings of freshest blue.
At last when I fall asleep,
The last sound I hear
Is your breath
In my ear.
That sound is mine to keep.
Your secret, only known to me
That you are vulnerable in your dreams.
Bared for the world to see
Your heart sounds an irregular beat.
Terrified to fall
yet how I know that you would have it all.
And in your eyes I see the truth;
You know as well as I do.
And then as I close my eyes
And I hear your gentle sighs
I silently scream
"I love you"
But I do not dare to breathe.
Our love is
so sweet and secret
Kept locked up behind bedroom doors
and the doors of your beat up truck
Our love is
clever woven words
trying to out-do each other
Our love is
our faces getting too close,
eye contact that last too long
Silly things that didn't exist before we created them
Our love is
the moment between breaths
the spark of a lighter
the hidden smiles
the looking
the looking away
Our love is
borderline insanity
Our love is
like nothing other
because this love
is titled

"Just Friends"
I watch him move as if in a trance,
Engrossed in another world,
In moments like this I
Don't dare disturb
Him out of his spiritual reverie,
His hands doused in color,
Working on the canvas in a rapturing frenzy.

He is a spectacle,
The creator of perfection.
He knows just the right shade
To bring to life his vision,
He knows...
He knows it all,
Mingling fine detail with vague mystery,
Crafting beauty that enthralls.

While I...
I fumble and struggle,
To pick the right words,
To describe him,
My fixation, obsession,
My muse, my craft,
As if he reduces all my poetic prowess
To a bundle of nervous childish follies,
He, the master of his art towers over-
Me, merely a humble slave of his fancies.
FIG
So, there's this fig
In my fruitbowl, almost purple,
Posing atop apples and a mango,
Just being beautiful
And begging to be touched.
It bursts with promise;
If I split it open - oh -
Unmistakably labial lusciousness
will spill out and I will have to ****
my sticky fingers like an infant
at the ******, tugging
oh so gently with an eager, warm, wet tongue,
Pursed lips pulsing
where the juicy flesh meets dewy, fragrant skin.
I bear witness to this fruit's fragile moment of sheer perfection,
And my honest, overwhelming lust
For tender flesh.
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