"clarifying" poems
people **** people
with nothing but fingers and hair
and their very heavy breath.
their breath like a crow beak
before crucifixes of straw. like a tightening banishment of a lung.
remember when we would blow it
onto our car window and create that
consistent mirth of fog to
begin in?
the bodies riddled with bullets that flank
the highway are no such thing.
the schoolchildren lying face down in the corner of the closet are no such thing.
they are just winter coats with schoolchildren to fill them
for the time being.
no amputation of what’s mine
will aid them into the grave.
no mass communication grief. so
why would you call it a mass grave when in truth it was just a pit i dug to fill with crowds of people who died under the pretense that they had previously done so,
that nothing was new under the sun.
and when people **** people like people
do with their instruments
as ways of extending themselves into the world and into the marrow of our body
obliterating organs of people with their stretching of the muscular rib, shoulder.
one eye closes firmly.
it’s nothing but a hand gun
as if to say a hand eats the gun
and makes it whole.
as if to say the reinforced metal door
exit plan for people who are being killed by other people clicked shut and locked
15,000 years ago and i can’t quit slamming what’s left of me into it.
your kid is very dead.
but then again so is mine.
suppose they killed each other.
suppose they both made the mistake of dragging their small, stupid bodies through the trajectory of another body in the first place. in the chip aisle of a gas station maybe. in theaters this christmas.
in the midst of a good song that began playing on the lobby radio
just a minute before,
oh yeah before,
things really got going.
i saw people killing people
on television the other day
with their
whole bodies,
devouring themselves like surgical gloves
slick with oiled consumption
and bleeding out
and i could do nothing.
some kids died just because
and they told me so and i was told nothing could ever help them because they were just people and they were dying.
“breaking news” ended up just being people again.
in those moments, i was eating breakfast.
our houses were very quiet and needed me in all of them, grandfather clock over CNN, clarifying what has already been
committed and committed again.
the cipher was others lost blood.
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 12:24 AM UTC
two days
before we loaded the car
with what seemed like the entirety
of my heart and belongings
to move me across the state to attend college,
my baby brother found me on the kitchen floor,
crying
about the microwave.
well,
not just the microwave.
he found me in a crumpled up heap,
sobbing that this day
would be the last i had
to microwave things
in
this
particular
microwave.
i couldn’t justify my lament then.
my dad chalked it up to ***
my brother called me a drama queen,
and my mom told me i needed to eat less microwaveable things.
but i think i might’ve figured it out now.
five months later.
y’see, i grew up an ARMY brat.
attended five different elementary schools,
two separate middle schools,
one high school,
and two colleges.
i was never good at saying goodbye,
but i’m a pro at walking away.
i found out quickly
that while the faces and names
of my friends and classmates
change from state to state,
the character tropes
stay basically the same.
people and places become such replaceable things.
i worry,
a lot,
about being a replaceable thing.
there are talented people in this world.
people that can divine the past and future
from coffee grounds and tea leaves.
but can anyone here tell me what kinds of awful things my footsteps say about me?
there are boot marks,
with my name on them,
in places i know i should never have been.
and clumps of dirt stuck to my heels
that have been with me longer than some friends have.
i sat on the floor last night
while my love explained physics to me.
he told me
that gravity is a constant force,
and of course,
the earth’s gravity affects each and every one of us.
but our individual gravity affects the earth as well.
according to newton’s third law,
the earth pulls of me
with the same force that i pull on the earth.
my mass disrupts space time.
carl sagan once told me
through the clarifying prism of the television screen,
that we are all stardust,
collapsed suns
and black matter.
we belong to no place.
i belong to no place.
i belong to no place.
i don’t cry about the microwave anymore,
i don’t waste my tears on saying goodbye.
i know that every thing and every one has their time,
and sometimes that time is brief.
it’s a hard pill to swallow,
ultimately my favorite self descriptor is ‘infallible’.
but somedays, i fall
just to stand up and see:
the sun still rises,
the earth still turns,
the microwave still makes bomb-ass chicken nuggets,
and i am still here.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
Maybe my writing
Will improve
When strewn over
Blue lined graph paper,
Tiny boxes,
Coaxing out order,
Perhaps even
Clarifying boundaries
Between crazed truth,
And detrimental lies.
The grid putting
Poem in context,
Poem like graph,
Displaying
Levels of THC
Depression
Number of Kisses
Tears Cried
Outliers of secrets uttered.
Box and whisker plot
Displaying anxiety,
Skewed data toward extremes.
No.
Linear writing would
Reveal the chaos inside.
I can't fit the poems
To the squares.
A graph can't really cry
The way a person can.
There's a losing feeling
Etched in pen
On a harshly graded
Parcel of mathematical quizzing
That a poem has no place to
Instill in me.
And no one would
Be able to read my work
The way they tell you to show it.
My poems have no color coding.
Definition between data
Becomes hazy as
Layers of black are added
In empty,
All encompassing anger.
And I smoke while I write tonight,
Haze growing,
Lines wobbled,
And I may have put a poem
On a piece of graph paper
But it's nothing like the math homework
That stays in my backpack.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
five years ago, June 2018,
I, poet Sir Humbug,
wrote:that the job of the artist was to be
luminous and dangerous
<>
*the job of the artist
is to be
luminous and dangerous
luminous to others
by being
dangerous to themselves
when the words are ripped from the chest,
atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes,
starburst fireworks,
luminous and dangerous,
luminating the shared night,
laminating your truths,
in poems disguised
and so the job,
our work,
begins*
<>
five years on,
somethings have changed,
indeed, the dangers of
being luminous,
clarifying and exposing,
the requisite badge of courage,
need-be more desperately earned
the work is more risky,
as the rules of now are none,
and the risk of good taste,
thoughtful caring,
exposing you innards outwardly,
so easy to demean
and sadly
that titillates the iliterati
like a fire-working fireflies flashing,
their in-concert of ligh attracts the
oohs and aahs
but too,
the restless for glory,
opinionated blowhard,
whose critical boundaries of ill will
are
boundless
yet,
write on, right on
to be where courage be the
sticking point!
your verbs must be pointy,
your direction true,
adjectives of modest innovation,
craft harder, then harder again,
for the work must be honest
in a manner most delicate
now is the time of
subtlety -
if one must bang pots to be heard,
that you to are but a noisemaker, a loser,
an addition to those
lost in the din
quiet passion,
thoughtful insight
to inside, to the tender parts,
will rule the day
and the blow smokers
will rue the day,
as their pretenses chafe and flail wayside,
and your words,
be like sightings of new lands
where you take us utterly beholden,
willing explorers to places most wonderfully
luminous and dangerous!
Jul 10, 2023
Jul 10, 2023 at 11:25 PM UTC
#
*The killer
came crashing down
smashing, thrashing through.
What is tender's tender
so for itself, to do?
--As it runs
right over the top of her..
This taker.
This killer.
In the black,
now in between;
so lightless and thick..
blotting out all screams.
There is an annihilation here.
A void.
A terror.
To stay, means certain death
but to leave
also means certain death
So the d is m e m b e r men t begins
as she is ripped, completely into half
And those halves, into half..
.. into half
--into half..
into half.
And still it tears.. rips.. shreds--
Until all, in between
is nothing but black.
A black it can now pretend to fill
with all of its empty promises..
and all of its counterfeit, everything.
..And then-- just up and leaves
once it is fully satiated.*
***And for a while..
the black had something.***
*Clinging to the rocky crags
on either side of the unlit valley
are now the pieces of her--
war-torn and shuddering.
Terrified
Of the black, black empty.
Of what is now fully
and completely dark.
~ ~ ~ ~
Timmy ain't real tall
but look at his stature,
as his majestic strings dialogue
the introduction.
And Warren's gotten so fat
See him now, looking so dearly, back
at his half-pint of Chunky Monkey--
picking it back up, for the fourth time..
scraping... scraping.. scraping..
But watch his eyes light up
as Timmy looks up--
over the top
of those wild-man RayBans
And with a gentle nod, it all begins..
-- as our Warren now digs deep
into his Gibson's beautifully-wanton ways..
identifying.
clarifying.
Rectifying.
Clarence, the Magician..
Stephan-- Humble, Unparalleled
And Dave's so chill
he's part Creole.. I just know it.
So great a cloud of witness:
surrounding you, my beautiful..
coaxing you.
Identifying it all for you.*
#
Mar 10, 2022
Mar 10, 2022 at 12:01 AM UTC
1418
How lonesome the Wind must feel Nights—
When people have put out the Lights
And everything that has an Inn
Closes the shutter and goes in—
How pompous the Wind must feel Noons
Stepping to incorporeal Tunes
Correcting errors of the sky
And clarifying scenery
How mighty the Wind must feel Morns
Encamping on a thousand dawns
Espousing each and spurning all
Then soaring to his Temple Tall—
2.8k
How many times I lay
On that old couch
Just through the doorway
Where she shuffled from the table to the stove
Bringing food to dad,
In for supper late,
Or moving dishes to the sink
While I rested from the day,
Just lying there,
Unaware of conversations
I was soaking in.
"I should have sold the winter wheat
A week ago.
No telling how far down the price will go
Now that Russia's stopped our sales."
"Pizza, two for seven dollars again;
Apples three pounds for a dollar;
Bread for seventy-nine."
Or heard his offhand orders for next morning:
"Fencing's got to be done at Henry's.
Boys! I need one of you to check the pastures.
Take some salt and mineral along!"
Mother seldom spoke, or if she did,
She gave correction,
Reported pizza inventories, or bread.
Asked clarifying questions,
But always the creaking oven door
Or the running of rinsing water.
I awoke this morning at three,
Almost a year after my fathers death
From a restless dream of lying there.
Heard my mother's sounds,
My father's voice,
Life as once it was,
Mundane and wonderful
From the couch around the corner of the door:
A living memory
I would no more expunge
Than to remove my own name.
In a dream state,
Attentive now to sounds
Grown too late significant,
Too late sweet,
Almost too painful now,
I lay,
Half aware or half awake...
Thankful to live a memory so real,
Unaware I was transfixed
Inside a memory
Moving lightning speed
Through dreams....
As he was readying to leave,
Perhaps to go down to do one last chore,
I heard my father's footstep at the door.
"Dad, I wanted you to know
I love you very much!"
I spoke the words,
Loudly, so he heard.
I heard him clear his throat,
Say something about getting back to work.
And I awoke, a full day's drive away
From that old couch,
Itself five miles up the hill
From the buried urn where his cold ashes lie.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 6:27 AM UTC
He'd give me that kind of feeling.
You know the kind I'm talking about.
The relief of seeing him before class started, clarifying that he will be at school, and that you made a good choice by coming. How else would you see him and make sure he's okay.
The feeling in your throat when he quietly approaches you as you sit underneath a tree, and sitting next to you, asking you if you're alright. 'He cares' you think.
The butterflies in your stomach-wait, scratch that- the ******* fire breathing dragon in your lungs whenever he wraps his arms around your shoulders after school before he goes home and you go on the bus.
The rush of texting him back,
The smell of his cologne makes you feel sick because its so angelic,
The feeling of cold lips because you had a dream you kissed and his lips were frozen from the snow around you guys,
The feeling that you know you'll be okay in the future, even if you don't speak to him.
Because knowing he is real, walking, alive, and that God has finally done something nice for you.
is a good enough feeling.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
The Prism Through Which We See Clearly
~
light saws our untrue selves with acute angles,
piercing our holistic pretenses, daily disambiguation features,
our sheltering disguises into our essence refractive elements
this is not a cute rainbow poem - run from here
it is a dissection of our true nature
why belabor, why elaborate?
through the prism
you color-coded self, tracted,
a mapping of your intersections,
what each color speaks, needs not an explication,
your hidden humanity comes to my eyes, in full revelation
at last I see you clearly
the lost and black withered limbs,
the stirring, leaping, enflamed flaring, never ceasing, breathing elements that mark your singularity
did you know your eyes are constant singers?
through prism, each note heard distinctly, as it rises uplifted,
your song, mine for observation and weeping exhalations,
your song, the production number of thy own composition,
through prism, our interior visual disinterred and released,
here I must cease, for what seen, grievous weeping deepens,
from the glory and the pain my blurred wetness overwhelms
the clarifying crystal useless when tear coated
through the prism,
before the full length mirror,
my own, unowned, never could be owned,
'mirror mirror on the wall,'
warped weave of tissues, mine,
the song sounds, mine,
from lungs disgorged
myself, diagnosed and displayed
of what I see, spitting speech
ceases and desists,
the only thought permitted, repeated,
where is my shelter now?
5/13/17 6:49am
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 7:02 AM UTC
To whom do I belong?
To the cold morning
and the unrelenting pound of my feet,
to meet the waistband of my favorite pants.
To whom do I belong?
To the cries of the babe left momentarily alone
while I halt time in the motion of rushing water and clarifying peace
in being simply clean.
To whom do I belong?
To the man who comes home from a career
I gave up to care for others,
To the man who pours into me every need, secret, thought and dream without cease?
While I silently and forever support.
To whom do I belong?
To the child so afraid of the world after years of hurt
Best friend, Gilmore girl, dreamer with an uncertain expiry date.
To whom do I belong?
To the food raised,
The clothes mended,
The laundry flapping in the wind,
The music that surges through my thoughts and never ends
And is reluctantly reminded "later, later, later my friend".
To whom do I belong?
To the old man now dying, tended by many
Yet wanting wanting wanting the role of my beloved or child
While his wife and all push me to take what she has abandoned
To give of me the parts of her she won't share
Untangling from a blackberry bush full of webs.
To whom do I belong?
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 4:21 PM UTC
These Lines:
etched and edged,
well-distinct and ill-defining,
clarifying and disguising,
multifarious characters,
multivariate natures.
nefarious and courageous.
thickened thinnings,
straightforward curvings,
appointed and unanointed,
given, taken, and then
redrawn, misshapen.
both boundary and limitations,
goal reached, unending destinations,
a human's realm of indefinite definitions,
These Lines:
mappings of his domain,
recordings of his failings.
my great divide,
testimonies to my endings,
visual markers of
virtuous past successes,
virtual future failures invadings.
How can they be both simultaneous?
These Lines:
double etched and sword edged,
outbound-triumphant, defending,
inbound-plaintive, wailing,
both an indefensible and defensive blade,
cutting, both ways.
*PostScript:
The twenty eight of the month of Feb-rue-ary,
clear enough ending to the muddiest, contrary,
turgid month of the ifs of a man's life.*
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 4:50 AM UTC
Green stripes against
The watered down red wine carpet
Almost like Christmas in August
Sauf the creepy fat man
Entering your house
Via the chimney.
The blue lines dictate where the letters begin,
And end.
The ticking clock reminds the brain
Of life, time passing.
Light seeps into the room from
The over illuminated hallway,
Fluorescent lights clarifying every dimple,
Freckle, pimple and scar.
The hallways silent with sleeping children
dreaming of fame, wealth and popularity.
The whirling of the AC separates the cool inside
from the sweltering heat
the setting sun left with the night.
The darkness brings no relief.
Vessels against the carpeted cement floor
resonating like a sound wave
through the whole body.
Pulsing from fingers to toes
in time with the metronome of the heart.
Each of the senses heightened
with the lack of sleep.
Joints swollen, pained from the strain of living
Life.
Every day is a new movement
In the symphony of life.
Every moment a new note is written
on another page
in the never ending book.
The soul swirling with emotion
Dizzies the eyes to reality—
Blurring, mixing
What is seen
What is imagined.
Blank stares at a blank wall
cause an eruption of creativity
Leading to hand cramps
And writing circles on the floor.
My mind, finally at peace,
At last able to leak some creativity
Onto an empty page.
Filling it with the emotion of
Black ink against a white sheet of
Lined paper.
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 8:49 PM UTC
I finally feel the need for change
I completely welcome the tales of the past
Tragedy is what makes me who I am.
Seeking the entirety of the person I was made to be.
You finally broke through that armor of mine
The entire world looks at me and my decisions with disdain
Infatuation and interest, keeps me confined here
But I don’t know any more lessons to be learned from you.
I have learned some tolerance, patience and kindness
I have been taught to do what is required of me
Seeking the flame to brighten my day, my whole being
Still, waiting and watching to engage myself to thee.
Witchcraft and trickery are used all the time,
It doesn’t make it right or the best of the choices
However, I continue to persist and continue on
My spiritual guide is the only entity’s voices
I plea to thee, for a final chance
In which, to make this right
I am open and willing for another way
Seeking answers through my second sight.
Forgive me if I appear to be out of my mind,
I’m trying to give up on my painful memories, always keeping me down
The stars twinkle in the sky, the clouds keep moving around
Watching, waiting for that musical, whimsical, clarifying sound.
The wind chimes in the garden echo from a distance
Striking me at just the right moment, a moment of chance to be
Feel me at my core, feel me cover you with all of my love
Sell yourself to only me, against all odds, to have a chance to see.
Imprisoned within these walls that I have made
I find it hard to trust another man
But in the end, being alone isn’t the answer
I am doing all I possibly can.
But, I don’t give up and it doesn’t really matter to me
I’ll keep standing up, after getting kicked in the ribs for eternity
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
I got a sore neck from resting my head on your shoulder.
I don't even mind, I would love to be close as the skies get colder.
My eyes are sore from not seeing you,
My heart is light with the joy of knowing this is all true.
I can't write my ******* essay,
I am too busy thinking of how I don't want you to stray.
My mind is sore from thinking about this spark,
My skull rings with this beat as I lay awake in the dark.
Hearing you say these words can be kind of terrifying,
But when you remind me you care, it is the sound of my world clarifying.
I want to be sore, I want to remember,
The way we were close, just fan the spark, don't put out the ember.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Bless the world,
And everything in it,
Although we live in the land of evil,
Which I don't get til this day.
Because if god wants us to pray,
And wants us to be okay,
They put us into a work of destruction and false artistry,
Not rebelling,
Wishing there was something to prove,
Where was your god when the devil possessed you,
Don't know where my fate lies,
Or where it even laid at,
For things that we can't control on his earth is what we have to get judged for in heaven,
But you allowed it!!,
Not rebelling,
But clearly clarifying,
That life is truly not fair indeed,
That all the clarity,
And hope and dreams,
Will be discreet,
And the evil wins again,
Who do you believe?
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 10:49 PM UTC
There are stars here!
There are stars here, my friends!
And as I lie among the streetlight-
-cast penumbras staring at the
Pentahedral crystal hammock jungle gym
I am with them!
I am with them in wonder
In joy in amazement in ecstasy in open-
-eyed revelation of truth
As I realize I was born not
In a city of shadows
But in a city of such blinding brightness
That I could never marvel at the darkness
and the darkness is beautiful here.
Perfect halogen moonbeam outlines of imperfect
Bodies frolicking in selfprescribed madness
Spinning in the chemical centrifuge
Until lights become light and
encircles us
endlessly
Creating its own central outward
Gravity
As I become you become me
And we sail this endless sea of
Blackness
And we fall ever deeper into the great
Singularity
everconsuming everlasting
All Encompassing
Feeling Grasping Gasping
Growing
Seeing
Darkness.
Instruments of depravity
Forged great, twisted
Spinal curvatures held proud
And feared by the mighty
For our words poison their youth
Revealing our shadowy enlightenment
Clarifying with murky water
Promises of intangible tangibilities.
Beautifying chaotic tangled
Masses forming perfection in
nebulous
amorphism.
Downward, Downward
Circling ever downward
Spiraling veraciously downward
Downward the holy!
Downward the giving!
Downward unto Heaven!
Downward unto Hell!
Downward unto Creation!
Down.
Where the soul becomes concrete
And the concrete vague
synesthetic
bliss.
The Darkness is beautiful here.
6 September 20l0
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 5:37 PM UTC
I would love to meet all of my selves;
To dine with, and hold clarifying conversations.
I have long been wary of my many personalities,
embraced them, and cherished each one of them.
I wish I could individually meet each one of them.
To hear them introduce themselves;
To hug me and comment on the pleasure of meeting me.
To understand them, as seperate persons outside of me.
To hear their stories,
what groomed who they are;
to hear about their days,
and talk about their feelings;
for them to tell me if I give them enough of me.
Do they even like me, or like being a part of me?
They mould who I am;
They are who I am.
They carry me when I am at my weakest;
They are weak with me, cry with me -
laugh with me, love with me,
and wander with me, at 3:55 am.
Would I enjoy them,
and want them to remain a part of my life?
Are they individuals with stories,
who also need to be heard?
Part of being understood is being heard.
We learn new things about ourselves all the time;
Maybe, that is how we meet our own selves:
In Epiphanies about our identities.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC
~for Henessy J. Beltre and all the new Observers of the Universe~
“my goal is to develop a more personalized meaning of beauty, love, and self actualization through my writing.” Henessy J. Beltre
each word, chewed upon,
individually and collectively
as I drive from Roma to Firenze,
long drives in unfamiliar scapes, olive shaded greens,
umbrella trees, and thin thickets of the vineyards planted
in the years notated as B.C.
are life pauses, asking, admission to the clarifying blankness
that commands rifle shots of riflessione (reflection)
your words, goading foaling, are all our goals,
succinctly refined, for doesn’t every and each poem
asks through our eyes what are the visions of
love and beauty that is the actuality we ceaseless seek
avanti signorina!
unleash the wild words that will make your mission
burst from the ancient to the revitalizing, knowing this,
that the universals you seek to dress yourself within,
to share here, to create, to actualize,
are products of your truths
be unaffected by stale mores, conventions dictates,
spill truths, soiled and used, cherished and recycled in
new ways, so that each of one of us
blesses you with one word:
exactly!
31/10/18
on the autoroute to Firenze
read https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2793919/universe/
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 6:35 AM UTC
As I sit a puff on a cigarette,
I remember once a clarifying dream-
Of finding my way when lost.
A journey of wonder and choices,
But a day like today-
when I ponder,
I cant help but seeing it different.
Of no lights when I reach the end,
No hand to hold-
When I reach a bend in the road.
Of a haunting darkness,
To which no God can illuminate.
The curve of an eyelash,
the accelerated beating of a heart,
the aching in my soul-
that makes me wonder if any of it is real.
Or gasping for air-
Under the crushing blows of the waves,
Feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders.
For once I dreamt and felt,
but now I only wreak of panic,
and blind messes.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
I yearn for something long gone in the depths of the future;
Not able to place a finger on its familiarity.
Discovering what is already known
Can be a clarifying process of redundancy.
When a step forward feels like a tumble backward
Toward the inevitable direction of it all.
When a puzzle forms around me
I stand there, inert.
The challenge beckons me further. It calls me closer,
Etching itself deeper into my path.
Smiling at the fantasy of completion on the other side,
A field of emotional mishaps rains down before me.
Apr 16, 2025
Apr 16, 2025 at 9:55 AM UTC
Picture a Rubix Cube.
Boxes fixed on an axel
Colored stickers plastered on each one.
If you are missing a piece,
The whole cube will fall apart.
The Cube will collapse.
Did you know?
In your mind, I bet the cube
Was shaped in a perfect box.
Symmetrical sides, 90 degree angels.
Maybe the colors in order, maybe not.
Either way, all parts in tact.
Picture a Rubix Cube.
Each box apart of me,
All Connected, with near infinite combinations.
Every side says something.
What can I show you next...
Is all in clarifying the question.
Why don't you just ask?
I am a Rubix Cube
And you will never solve me.
If you want to try
All you need to do is ask.
Just ask for the answer key!
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 10:16 PM UTC
studied dispassion,
go about
the roundabout
of practiced ordinary living,
fully aware,
there are no open exits
currently available,
leading back to when,
all exits
led only bright forward
consensual distance
spaces tween
registered vehicles
but no longer
registering bodies,
legally maintained,
by all
outward appearances,
minor kisses
in a habitual habitat,
perfunctory
of the functionary,
"I love you's"
traded before
shutting off the
permanence of the
finale of the
now dimmed bedroom light
diminution
by the minute,
covertly clarifying
the ex-mission critical,
cutthroat ended
by consensual distances,
silent no speaking
empty spaces that
cannot be closed,
or
dispossessed disposed,
the sensual, desensitized
been down this
slow mo lazy path,
to slow ruin
before
the quick road to
The End
the questions
air hung but
unasked,
the words
unspoken,
they,
the ultimate
****** weapons
inevitably found,
getting at long last
a final hearing,
judgement reached
at the
reenacted scene
the finale resting place,
*the grave of spaces,
consensual spaces,
the gulf of no love,*
the pre-partum dénouement
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 8:18 AM UTC
Return to a pretense
As a dog wanders streets at night
Brighter lights this time
Counting our steps in the soil
Listening on a hospital bed
I float awareness
Relaxed
Silence
Saved
The rest is missing as your breath fills the room
It cannot be this way
What is left is tainted but remains
For example our embodied love
To see without malice
I move forward in strength
You can smell me on this dark morning
Clarifying this pain was real
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 11:26 PM UTC