"ceremoniously" poems
The pulsating, pearl moon
Harbours the last remnants of romance,
Scintillating, in the valourous sky,
As I ceremoniously call upon the gods
To bring her back to me.
I longingly strip, craving the vivacity of her caress.
Irresistible, I would yield to the perpetual
Power of her touch.
Immersed in the shadowy depths,
Rippling serenities of thought.
I glimpse at her reflective soul,
Shimmering upon the ravenous river,
Emanating from the stars
In all their graceful radiance.
Her heart illuminates
The benevolent evening.
The breath of inevitability
Stings my skin, as I dress,
Firing my arrows of impatience
Disconsolately, into the shivering azure,
Hoping for a way
To penetrate her very being.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
The rooster swivels on its axis returning
coarse wind into the pyre of mad, mad tongues
raving alongside charred ivory. Lifted by sorry hands
from dying embers’ embrace and eased with foreign pity,
ceremoniously, into a cardboard crate wheeled against
the traffic, stumbling backwards through yellow canvases,
between my family dressed in black, to dress the void (deck),
mourners spitting soda into their cups, as word paddle upstream,
onto a thin futon within four walls stained with unfinished ghosts.
The doctor removes the white shroud like God coaxing pink light
on the first day and wine oozes through elastic veins to the far corners of my skin thin ventricular walls. One crack, in the doors and in my chest, paramedics in white blur in, heel first,
Pan-island couriers on reverse gear to the corner
of a numbered street, where I am delivered like a gladiator
thrown into the arena of nosy gazes, with the urgency of
hens clucking away from premeditated slaughter:
deep Christmas red on the tessellated parking lot.
Clumsy thumbs dialing 599, I moan inwardly
to the concentric circles of strangers retreating, erasing
me from cell-phone cameras. Then like a flip animation I
snap backwards, up 21 floors,
pause for about an hour on the ledge before smashing
backwards, back down, past kids scratching graffiti off the cement
and growing cigarettes in their mouths. The rain ascends and I take
wet cash from the driver while I fidget on the leather and throw up
mediocre coffee into my cup. I dig into my throat and return the bread
to its plastic bag and when the cab stops I fall left out onto another parking lot,
moonwalk up the stairs to where I unwrite my name in the
annals of failure and
shove the Fs of my past back
then
I take the bus instead.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
Tingly under the daisies;
Glassy-eyed, glazed, greasy;
Shaking, shivering, shuddering,
Wishing, wandering, whimpering,
Westernizing—
Romanizing—
Constitutionalizing—
Institutionalizing—
Perpetually searching
And dying
And living,
Watching Death survive
And scythe the frolickers,
The prancers,
The rompers,
The merrymakers.
A rose clamped between his
Grinning teeth glistens brightly,
And he dances so joyously.
“Yes!” say the naysayers,
Confused are the soothsayers,
Lost are the cartographers.
Oh, Utopia!
The monks are extravagant;
The meditations are a farce!
The preachers are beggars
And swindlers and chargers,
And Machiavelli fulfills his wishes!
Babies are stillborn, stabbed, and
Ritualistically sacrificed,
And their blood is spilled, drunk,
Slathered over the ***** man.
The evangelists scream and lie:
“You are all predestined to die!”
Oh, hail Utopia!
Wedded are the girls to the girls;
Wedded are the boys to the boys;
Wedded is Death to Death,
Life to Life,
And Life to Death.
Wedded are the living to the existent.
And the milking babes are slaughtered
Ceremoniously,
Surreptitiously,
Ostentatiously.
Oh, hail great Utopia!
We are all dead and unintelligent:
Laugh, laugh, Einstein, at your
Stupidity.
Laugh, laugh, Temple Grandin at
Your retardation.
Laugh, laugh, laugh!
Look at the sluggard, thou ant;
Look at the boy, sobbing wolf;
Aesop was drunk,
Aristotle was delusional,
Michelangelo was blind,
Beethoven could hear,
Poe was sane.
And I can't read.
They ramble,
I watch.
They sleep,
I watch.
They dream,
I watch.
They sleep-talk,
I watch.
They scream,
I watch.
They choke,
I watch.
They suffocate,
I watch.
Stone-faced, I stare;
Raspingly, I breathe;
Uncontrollably, I twitch;
Inwardly, I rage.
I hope you die, I hope you die.
I hope you bleed, I hope you die.
I want you begging and crying,
I want you blubbering at my feet,
I want you gnashing at my ankles,
I want you writhing in pain,
I want your arm twisted off,
Cracking with the snapping sinews, I want your beating heart in my hands, I want your genitals uprooted and stuffed in your throat, I want your stomach so I can eat the still-digesting food, I want your shrunken head and I want to force my thumbs into your unblinking eyes and I want to tear your face in two and I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 9:47 PM UTC
Where echos bound off cavern walls
Thundering, spacious water falls
Giving power to the ember furnace
Crafters work with full earnest
Our clang of metal forming metal
Our laughter around the stew-filled kettle
Lacboring long into the night
Carrying lanterns for our light
A golden tint in the arenose air
A rich man's delight, deep in this lair
A cornucopia of jewels and stone
Picks and axes spark on the hone
Melted metals with tools of the trade
Upon the anvil are ceremoniously laid
To be shaped and formed into desires
By light of the blazing, crimson fires
Where we find sweat and danger as one
And rarely journey out into the sun
Have amity with our fellow men
And all write to loved ones with one pen
The cavern echos, the rays of gold
This ancient house of tales untold
To find this place, a costly fee
For a way of escape will never be
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
This is for the residents who remember
And for the transplants who
Have yet to be informed
But have got an inkling
Burque has gone from
Bustling to busted
And back again
Growing up in the 80’s
I learned about the
Varying degrees of “sick”
As my dad pointed out
The pekid pachucos perusing
Pharmacy isles
Attempting to purchase
Cough syrup with codeine
In the evenings
Driving home down Central
I would ceremoniously
Count hookers
My parents would
Precariously pack heat
In the trunk of our car
Or even in my mom’s special ***** pack
With the hidden compartment
For her .38 snub nose
Because you never know
Who will be in your home
When you arrive
That’s a given
When flop houses are
Interwoven with prime real estate
And barrio boundaries
Border the bourgeois’ bungalows
And Huning’s Castles
And residents rarely recognize
Or realize
That aside from the locals
The European Jews
Was the only group gutsy enough
To settle here
And create commerce
Despite risks of being raided
By Apaches
And they reaped the benefits
Off Roma and Marquette
Because the rewards
Turned out to be greater than
The risks
And up North
Where Sephardic turned Crypto
Conversions to Catholicism
Kept the Messiah’s spirit alive
But in basements
They still did Chi fives!
I was saddened in middle school
When I realized
That many of our parents
Were too ashamed of our roots
To teach us Spanish
And our
Schools ****** so severely
That most of us
Didn’t learn English either
But hey –
All you need to
Communicate while cruising
Are cat calls
And the thumping boom
Of the bass in the tubes
And the hydraulic drop
When they hit
The hot spots
From Tingley, Kit Carson and
Central to Copper
Each kid dreams that
His ride
Will be the show stopper
I could rant and rave
And rattle off for days
But bottom line –
We have the most
Curious state
With mysterious qualities
And in-depth histories
But most of us are
More concerned with
Bud Light
And Biscochitos
Con Manteca
Because it just tastes great!
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 2:39 AM UTC
There is fire in the dance. The head of a candle burning and flickering in time to the dancer’s movement. The flame sways to and fro, responding to the dancer’s energy. Then the candle disappears.
Blisters begin to bubble up upon the dancer’s skin; then fully formed explode with liquid fire. Screams of agony reverberate across her tortured flesh. Her cries go silent as the pain slowly fades. The dancer becomes a living flame.
So, she dances. Each step scorching the soft ground, leaving little fires in their wake. Her legs ascend at an angle and descend in a spin. Hands clasped and rising upwards as her feet return to the earth. The fire trailing her movements like living echoes. Enflamed arms opening and closing with billows of smoke expanding around them. The ground burns beneath her feet as she leans her head back slowly.
Her face consumed by the flames fury; she attempts to howl. Instead of sound, rivers of crimson liquid explode from her lips. Jets of blood red water congeal into shiny flesh. First, impressions of a face form in the flat flowing puddle of scarlet goo. Then, a neck, next something akin to limbs takes shape.
The red rawness is evident but not painful, as she spews the last bits of the red liquid. Drips of crimson drops from the newly formed figure fall on the flaming dancer. The droplets sounding a soft beat and sizzle in rhythmic fashion like a drum snare; T sss T sss T sss T sss. The flaming dancer shudders in pleasure. The flames, encouraged by the dark moisture, recede then rise, as rouge vapors smoke off its’ figure. The fluid form expands further forming sinuous strands of cerise liquid hair.
Pirouetting in a whirlwind fashion the dancer continues her ballet. Her leg rises again as she leans back. Her head, inches from the ground, drops liquid fire. Then she straightens her tiny flaming frame. Behind her the red watery body slides its hands across the ground, calming the flames, and leaving only scorched and sticky earth in its wake.
So it goes with each movement the dancer lights the earth afire, and behind her the flames are doused. Each minute passing the fire weakens and shrinks as does the scarlet body. Until at last they embrace. The dancer’s arms rest upon her sides as the crimson liquid figure envelopes her.
One more red stroke across the canvass and the figures blend perfectly. One color fading and bleeding into the next in perfect abstraction. The month long dance finally finished. The brush is rinsed then ceremoniously placed in its spot. The artist sighs, there is a slight sense of relief, for this dance is finished, but an echo of sorrow remains for this dance is finished.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
A flickering illumination in a damp-aired room.
This lonely, glowing aura is the centerpiece of a dark abyss.
Crevices of this dungeon hide walls adourned with filth.
Suddently, wax drips from the candle reverberating an eerie echo.
This startles the only creature thriving in this everlasting, sinister darkness.
Awakened by the cease in silence and intriguied by the flame,
The moth leaves the safety of darkness and innocently begins to fly.
As he gently flutters towards the flame the moth feels something foreign --warmth.
Instinct tells him to continue flapping towards this otherwordly glow.
As if blind from birth and finally given sight, the moth now feels alive.
The combination of heat and light is addicting, he carniverously lusts for more.
Once innocent, the moth has now been corrupted by sheer ectasy.
Now, ceremoniously circling the flame basking in its heavenly glory.
Drunken with greed, the moth hastily swoops within inches of the flame.
A snakelike hiss consumes the room. --Darkness.
Its ravenous haste extinguished its short-lived salvation.
Now, cold as one-thousand winters, the moth can only dream of his lost savior
It can only wish that it had gone up in flames along with the candle now. . .
that pain would last a millisecond.
This pain is eternal.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 12:13 AM UTC
aromatic coffee awakens senses
midst the gestured warmth of radiant
smiles's 'tween morning brew,
reverently paused to catch
the awe inspiring poignancy
of sunrise's exhilaration,
whilst cozily wrapped in the delightful unfurl
of captivating poetry's skillful delectation
a rising ritual begun many blue moons afore,
tempting consciousness, feeding soulfulness
enlightening sensibilities as it
enriches the day's appreciation
'pon the keen awareness of poets,
tempests from all niches of the world
coming together amid upheavals and serenity,
ceremoniously dubbed fierce confirmations
of words expressly borne, communing the
artfully spirited of resourceful artisans,
procuring special collective bonds that
only poesy can wholly dictate,
they look upon us as enigmas
rather strange breed of puzzling characters,
as this inexplicable endeavor
escapes their stifled perceptions
of conduit's musing reasonable facsimile,
we're merely cognitive passages for
experiences on common ground
in realizations of all-too-human foibles
eccentricities, yearnings and fortitude,
released deliverance of potpourri
serving up inky joy beyond expression,
intention's distinction deciphering
reflections in meditative affirmations,
breadth of unrestrained beholden visions
conjured notions of paramount significance
wherein lies evidence of life's burnt offerings,
beginnings and endings of hearts' indulgences
wept in resolute celebrations of existence
as only a poet could discernibly translate
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 8:23 AM UTC
I was once convinced
Everything would
work itself out.
Every problem had a solution
Every fixation, an axis
Every point? purposeful.
Certainly time was an equation.
Solving the question of final age
was merely the addition of years
and the subtraction of moments
our vices swallowed.
Everything was orderly.
Numbers in a row.
Empty boxes, waiting to be checked.
DNA strands coiled ceremoniously
into my exact composure
worried about me so I wouldn't have to.
Days flaking off like dandruff,
unsightly flecks of fragility,
floating toward irreversible fate.
I would live until I wouldn’t.
I would teeter
...skid
....careen
through hours, anxiously awaiting
never taking a breath to rest and reflect.
Death was algebra.
I was subtracted from morality,
added it back as fatality.
Evening out- solving for X,
My many quaking days
having lost their grip.
~
Life is not math.
Life is trash recycled into sporadic moments that won't last.
Simplicity was never synonymous
To consciousness.
Sentient beings will always suffer.
Words will never suffice
When the feelings are out of place.
Attempts at descriptive narrative
only feel like a forced hand,
a poor play.
My slippery fingers are arthritic,
clutching at the vapors
of moments before mistakes.
I've never kept anything I loved.
I have ****** out of hate
more than I have out of lust.
I was always what I wanted to be
never was what I needed to be
And when desire ran dry
I always settled in the dust of desolate decisions.
The bell curve never helped with my grades
And this learning curve can’t help me find my place.
C.e.M. Aug. 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 6:24 PM UTC
Ditty This, Little Boy: Venerable Auntie
My Gf's nephew came for a visit,
Teased her that night,
Bowing ceremoniously,
In the Chinese manner,
Addressing her slyly, impishly,
Oh hell, teasingly, as,
Venerable Auntie
She smiled, but said little,
The next night,
When to Argentine Tango dance she must,
In the Chinese manner,
Wore a dress tight fitting,
Her poem, she called it,
With slits up the sides,
To facilitate her swoons and slides,
Leaving the imagination to take care of the rest
As she left, o'er shoulder she called out,
(To me)
Good night little boy,
Don't wait up for my return,
Auntie has gone to play
she won't be back till
Her bad boys have venerated her,
Sufficiently...
6:10 AM
June 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
Other people see only what I let peek through.
Small bits,
The false bottom
Tidying the Dark.
I risk too much in showing.
Yet, somehow,
Despite my efforts,
You startle me.
Glimpsing, somehow, by sheer luck or will or oneness,
That which has never been seen before.
Amazingly,
Miraculously,
Terrifyingly,
You don't look away in horror or shame.
And I begin to unfold.
And you with giant scissors ceremoniously releasing me from myself.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
Casper
That's the name they gave me
The intentions weren't friendly
They used it mockingly
Albeit creatively
Because my skin was alabaster pasty,
I was Jack Skelington skinny
And, apparently,
My blond hair and blue eyes weren't manly
So then,
I embraced it and turned it on them ceremoniously
No more Casper the Friendly,
Just Casper the Deadly
Turned to the ghost that gave nightmares to Freddy
Made the devil look heavenly
That persona went at any and every enemy
But now that I'm 40
I've let that part of me leave me
Though it was the only part of me that believed in me
The scratched up side of my flipped penny
...I miss is secretly...
©2024
Aug 5, 2024
Aug 5, 2024 at 7:21 PM UTC
What if our thoughts were controlled
and original thought was all but done
if it were illegal to ask questions
for example this one
what if there was no future or past
and only the simultaneous
time was only another tool
like a meter stick or others, miscellaneous
or what if those with life
instead of just being
break away from the grid
giving their own life meaning
without fear of their ideas being chased
hunted down, gathered up and erased
built up in great heaping pyres
and ceremoniously fed to the fires
people could extend their ideas
through-out the ages
merely by putting their words
on a few blank pages
influencing people
generations apart
simply by creating
a little bit of art
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
It was
put a bow on it pretty,
our democracy
with its polka-dot accountability
and its tissue-paper truths.
The discount-bin card arrived
separately, postage due,
and with a punctilious script
it promised us
a curlicued freedom from
antiquated forms of expression.
Our very love was
ceremoniously given,
but was it
ever right-
fully ours?
Let’s render up the flattering
notion of own,
as it's grown so fatty
lipped it wears a perpetual pout.
The gift was merely Caesar’s
grandiloquent concession
tagged liberally,
“To: Us,
a meekly over-entertained many
whose we, drained of meaning,
poses no coherent threat.”
Not yet.
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 5:45 AM UTC
Allen what happened to the America you used to inhabit?
What happened to the America that raised you to be an angel?
Allen why are the bison in hiding?
When will we ask Cuba for it's forgiveness?
I am sentimental about Cuba and I am sentimental about America
They used to say the American Dream was a green light on a dock at the other end of the lake
Now they tell us that light is actually swamp gas, a trick of the eye, the moon reflecting off the water
And we are left to search for the American Dream at the wheel of a Cadillac in a haze of drugs among the ruins of Vegas
Allen when will we hear from you again?
Allen you would not believe what has happened to love in America
Love has become too serious
Too calculated
Too intentional
Allen wasn't your love accidental?
Didn't it possess mistakes?
Love is ceremoniously scripted
Downright mechanical
An exhibition of State sanctioned sincerity
Allen please give my regards to Burroughs
The space program is closed to the astronauts
We need to get serious about space travel
America has become silly when it needs to be serious and serious when it needs to be silly
This election is a joke and we are dying not laughing
Allen we are fighting wars across the oceans with drones it's sinister
Every general is now an armchair general
They say they bombed a hospital by accident
Allen I'm afraid of what they do on purpose
Allen I feel like giving up on America
The golden valleys have been melted down for the false teeth of millionaires
The highways full or diamonds have been dug up and the diamonds sit in vaults with diamonds bought with blood
Allen you and I are too sensitive for what America has become
Allen I need you now more than ever
Please write back soon
Yours truly
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 11:58 PM UTC
Plastic bottles
Of cheap *****
Ceremoniously laid
On top the dirt
Faded red deterioration
Decorating human sin
The plastic as much
A human construct
As the forces driving those
To drink the poison within
Our kind is found among
The freshly fallen leaves,
Blanketing decomposition,
Suspended in between what
Is known of a detached life
Gracefully succumbing to nature
Our character is in the mulch,
It is in the metamorphosis
Our hopes and fears hidden
Within the actions that define us
Scattered about the ground
In the honor of days now drowned
In fermented angst
Plastic human sin
Cheap ceremony
These are the things
We choose to be
But we are so much more
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 3:50 AM UTC
Changes keep us running, swirling and twirling,
Creating echoes of ourselves.
We hear them calling,
But can’t stop from falling at
The worst of times.
Bells chime.
Not of church or dinner,
But wind.
Time to take a leap of faith and
Relax.
Wings flap as gulls ceremoniously take flight.
Rowboats constructed from bamboo,
Floating down the river,
Through strands of weeping willow’s hair,
Waves are iridescent and calm as the bright blue sky,
Fish swim beneath the invisible barrier separating life and death.
Forget.
Evening gives way to nightfall.
The bright sun recedes, among a spectrum of colors,
Into its home behind a mountain or
Under the sea.
Light once shed transforms to a dim shade,
Running along the cracks and ridges of the
Broken shoreline.
Believe.
Sitting, wondering and dreaming
Of our lives to this day and
What they will become.
Reminisce, then
Regret.
Breathe, look at the stars.
Those ever-glowing crystals in the dark, radiant sky.
The moonshine is as uplifting
As a baby’s first smile.
All is well.
Sleep,
And dream of times to come.
Now here we will rest in peace.
Mar 6, 2011
Mar 6, 2011 at 4:00 PM UTC
Bright hand touched the door
Easing it slowly around
With the tenderness of a prepubescent girl
Lingering gently about.
Wondering, loudly i might add,
That you really hate these Venetian blinds.
You sit in the fat leather chair,
Which must have belonged to your dad a million years ago.
You sip diet coke like your lost friend brandy,
And you cross your legs in the most ****** way
That my seminal vesicle shifts into overdrive.
Through the tainted windows
I see you raise your winter scarf to your throat
Ceremoniously, or possibly vehemently.
After which you clean your glasses with laser precision
And raise them back into place.
Your crystal gaze lands on the heavy door a few steps away,
They wait in concentrated intensity
As each heavy step’s staccato note is heard form the other side.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
One bright red
peony
inappropriately tucked in
your lapel
pierces the greys
of your suit and the sky.
Stiff-legged people in
soggy black shoes stand an
impromptu shoulder-width-apart-
Sharp and flat
piano keys against the concrete.
You stand with your arms around me
like you think I'll fall.
But I think probably I won't.
Somewhere behind the rain
guns are firing ceremoniously
and trembling hands rest delicately
on his folded flag.
(But I -
am peeking past
a sterile wooden door
afraid to see his sunken chest.
How small,
how
very
small he seems.
And he lifts his hand
and waves to me
and I'll never know
if he's saying)
Goodbye.
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 8:16 PM UTC
A daughter gives birth to a daughter,
Unknown and untouched, a stranger among strangers.
Her eyes are as big as the smile on her mama’s face,
Her being fills the tired and aching crevices of her mother’s body
As she soothes the pressure her mother has had to carry for a while now.
She looks at her daughter, really takes a look at her.
Her pale golden brown skin reminds her of the chai she used to make at home, the pungent aroma filling the entirety of the tiny bungalow cluttered with metallic pots and pans,
She still didn’t find uses for all of them.
Over here, there are strange phrases on these tea boxes, marked up with words like “real” and “authentic!” And it tastes stranger everything tastes so…bland.
She’s trying to fit into this movie poster with America as the Director and immigrants as actors, and the neon yellow flashing bulbs ceremoniously decorated around the word “diverse” because nothing feels right, even the clothes merely trying to cling onto her bare skin, as if they don’t know how to fit her.
Tiny movements and a tiny heartbeat,
And she knows why she came here.
Knowing that her daughter will never have to feel those salty tears produced by the paranoia of the unknown, making everything seem so bitter.
Knowing that tonight, and every other night, her daughter will be tucked under a blanket of opportunity,
And laying on a bed of dreams.
She stares out of the window, the warm summer breeze making her cozy and she soon blends in with the darkness of the night, hoping that everyday her daughter would be able to sleep as easily as she did tonight.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
Ruby red caress,
ceremoniously hums
melancholy fears.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 10:28 PM UTC
you told me that i belonged in the louvre
me, with my curtain of dark blonde hair that
i was (trying) to grow out to where it was
before i ceremoniously cut it all off
and that statement was followed with
not one
but two heart emojis
after that i trusted you (though i don’t know why)
the way you wormed your way into my head
deserves some sort of award
for months, before i even liked you, i would
dream about you almost every night
and i know that sounds crazy, but it happened
so i said that i liked you (indirectly)
but you told me you loved someone else (directly)
only, you said i belonged in the
i guess i never knew that i was meant to be
by myself there, a mona lisa smile on my face
waiting for you to come take me off the wall
and make me feel worthy again
because i had based all of my self-worth in
how many looks you gave me but you barely
told me the time of day
but i’ll wait
and wait
and wait
(tell when you’re ready for me)
(tell me you love me)
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
they seem to think I can heal you
they seem to think I can heal you,
but the truth is I can only be there
and when there are cracks in the ceiling
and the mountains are frozen or gently
rolling over mustard seeds, I will hold
fast to the one Mainstay and encourage
you to do so too--because I can't walk
with your legs or talk with your words
nor can I delve inside your dark waters
and know how to navigate your thoughts
that so often I won't understand--
and I won't change you because we will
be a team, a single cog rotating in a royal
body, bearing the heat and blows so that
when you are away and toiling, or burning
the sheets with newfound anger, I will
stand by and let your battles rage until
we meet on middle ground and grasp
each other's forearms in the dust, heaving.
with you, this will not be a game. You will not
be a piece, a checker, a player. I will not move
you or take mallets to your foundation because
it will be mine too--I will not hate you because
that would be hating myself and I will not hate
myself because that would be hating you--
I will not question your love for me like I have
questioned the masses, because this love will
not be antiquated but fresh and ripe each
morning, anew with our combined inquiries
and issues of heart, barrels of quinoa to sink
our fingers into and count ceremoniously
each grain a celebration, a victory poured
over quiet nights shared between whispers
and hushed prayers
and though your initial compliments and flattery
fade away, when our first meeting has worn off--
no lit suppers but bowls of hot oatmeal on the
couch, when our voices have failed to address
the day and time has only built between our hips,
I will quietly say that I have missed you
because though we are one there will still be
wedges---doorstops, rocks and boulders and
great things that drop and slide between us
that find their way into fissures in our flawed
surface
but
I will love you through that.
I will love you through each fight and missed
opportunity to apologize, every door closed a
little too hard, each cold dinner or syllable too
harshly spoken, when I send you
to the supermarket and you arrive with only
half of the groceries, when the world is splitting
in two and we are fleeing from city to city and I
can hardly recognize you through the grit and grime
I will love you.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
I dress and hold you
like a child
your pheromones intoxicating me
coughs
snores
gentle moans that require attention
bed shifting
the texture of the sheets subbing together
this is our symphony
I'm drunk off the scent of your hair and skin
artists created Gods in your image
shadows highlight your emaciation
static.
vibrato from sing-alongs
red wine and irish whiskey are bringing us together
and tearing us apart
we are both pilgrims
and
we are both savages
grabbing at my shirt like a little baby who needs his mommy
we sing to your body so
ceremoniously
nuzzling, rolling, blushing, adjusting
our souls require choas
clumsiness excused
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC