A Feeling

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He’d tell me of a feeling he’d get from time to time.
When-wariness would drowsily lower her shield, drunk on lethargy,
when things would grab hold a little too tightly
and the beats would become synonymous with scarcity of breath.
He’d describe it as a sorrow
and a guilt
and a regret.
A fear
and an anxiety
and the deepest passion.
It’s all of these things, he’d say, and it leaves me goddamn empty.


Metro Narcissist

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In stained red fabric I take my seat
as doors around me shudder shut.
A bitter stench of sweat and urine
stumbles into the adjacent chair.
Telltale signs of spirits.

He’s standing at the exit,
pouring music from his belt.
Shoulder blades bouncing under his leather jacket,
as he dances with the dapper man outside the door.
He shakes his ass, half exposed,
falling deeper in love with the echo of his beat.


December Coffee

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Trapped inside a coffee cup,
He can’t fall asleep
But he can’t get up.


Wind

wind and waves

Trees shudder in furious protest
Nursing immobilized hands in warm pockets
A hint of ocean in the spray
The wolves are out tonight


A Hundred Feet

One hundred feet

A hundred feet,
Lined up all neat,
Sat down to eat
And share a tweet

“Oh, what a treat!”
“It was quite sweet!”
“To cook, a feat!
This big red beet!”

They’d then compete,
Without deceit,
How quick the meat,
They could deplete!

A stationed fleet,
They’ve got no suite.
Took to the street
To flee the heat

But the Elite
Would smile discreet –
He had a seat
On cold concrete!

Now all replete,
Their meal complete,
Time to retreat
Those hundred feet.


Angel on the line

He’s opening the door,
It’s her voice, quite higher than his,
whispering about how big the cockroaches have been getting lately.

He holds the door,
But he pushes her away.
She’s waiting down below, swimming with spirits again.

He closes the door,
Vein attempts to keep the howling out
It doesn’t open until he hears her limping back to the forest.


In Other Worlds

Other Worlds

 

I’ve heard a word about this world of which you so softly speak,

Where everyone halts and finds no faults and nothing is so bleak.

Where I could tout and I could talk and say all that’s on my mind,

And it’d be true – through and through – no hidden roots for you to find.

Honest back and forth – from henceforth – to such a place I gladly would belong!

But as I write, could it be right? Perhaps I’ve lived there all along.


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