When he calls again,
Do Not pick up the phone,
do not wonder about lips that judge
ignorant of the fines he owes.

When he calls again,
Do Not throw the phone,
you have ran as far as runaway thoughts,
a shattered screen won't carry you further.

When he calls again,
Do Not scream at the ringtone,
the cacophony of broken sounds
will not chip away at the memory of his sins.

When he calls again,
when he begs for forgiveness,
DO (Not) tell this manchild that
to forgive is mercy,  
and only God grants mercy.

I write subtleties,
Thoughts that randomize in the wee of the morning,
The lover longing for something past its expiration date,
The curtain billowing in the breeze of the dark,
Fingertips reaching blindly for hems coming undone.
Bits and pieces to pluck away,
In the wee of the  morning,
When thoughts randomize.

There is nothing in space,
Only pieces of debris,
Like this shooting star which,
When it collides into Earth
At 14 kilometers per second,
Will leave nothing but a 98 feet ****,
Enough to permanently wound my heart.

There are secrets hidden between the lines of these pages
which crease like the sheets on your bed when
you turn and overturn them with a
misplaced foot or an erring hand in search of
bits and pieces of mahogany scattered across your seabed after
tumultuous waves rocked the ship back and forth
back and forth across the seascape where I learned to
let go and swim good and
break to the surface gasping for
your breath infused with the aroma of imported coffee and
the lingering aftertaste of sea-**** on your taste buds between
the hidden corners of your cheeks within
the hidden corners of your mouth,
I delved deep, swam good, delved deep,
swam up and down, up and down,
until the tumultuous waves swelled up and tossed
my body back and forth, back and forth,
slamming it against solid rocks into
bits and pieces of mahogany scattered across your seabed.

I knew a man who knew how to tear down walls
He was no patriot but he saw the fall of the Berlin Wall.
He told me that to build is an art,
But the hand that lays down the bricks
Should be ready to tear down the walls
When they serve geopolitics.

I listened to a heretic who preached that
Social boundaries limit movement,
Only when one hesitates to toe the line
And break out of confinement.

I stood with a revolutionary who picketed
White picket fences and  manicured lawns,
Watching from a concrete sidewalk,
Where grass learned to sprout between cement cracks.

I traveled with a wanderer
And searched for the North star in the dark,
Until I learned my footprints,
Like the constellations in the night.

In the picture
they stood
criss-crossed  
poised
in white gloves without a speck of dust,
perfect... still.

They had learned how to stand,
each finger elongating
throughout time
straining to stand still.

They had learned how to move
after the fore-arm then the arm,
had learned how to be  raised, palms outward,
four fingers pointed in salute
motionless... still.

In another instant which
survived in a momentary
tic-tock, tic-tock
******* stood
on a trigger, aiming point-blank...still.

But this was not in the still of the picture:
They had known how to mold clay
until it surrendered under able fingers
and took shape
how to be passionate
how to grasp
how to give caresses, and
squeeze oranges
how to twirl another during the Varsouviana.
They had known how to hold a baby.

...He came in like a tornado,
Abruptly.
He created tides in his wake
Disrupting my shores...
He leaves the same way...