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Casual Convo
"Et cetera." "Et cetera? The end
is rarely that expected." "Which is why
one says so after." "'Too late,' you imply?"
"'Assume' is what, but since I'm still your friend
in Facebook terms, we play nice, right?" "Depend
on it." "I used to. I might even try
to once again." "Oh?" "Yeah, or not." "No lie,
that's what makes it so easy to pretend."
"'Whatever,' right?" "'Whatever.' Choose your word.
I'm not responsible." "By that you mean
you'll hold against me what you think gets heard
or doesn't get that close." "Don't make a scene."
"A scene? A life was more what I'd preferred,
as if one word made sense beyond this screen."
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Just Visiting
As if one word made sense. Beyond this screen
perhaps. Across that threshold yes. As though
one promise could have been accepted. Oh
inside those walls for sure. No guards between
the two of us of course there then. Routine
as a good morning kiss as if you know
I pose no threat. As though I choose to go
or stay with no missteps to intervene.
Like this were home. Like you knew I'd been meant
to be a part. No stranger. Family.
Except I'm not. You'll not know where I went
tomorrow morning. I won't ever see
you waking. This will mark the best extent
my time with you might offer guarantee.
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No Excuses
My time with you might offer guarantee
of nothing more than somewhat shared pretense
by which I'm not thought worthy your defence
so shrug it off or claim the fault's with me,
whereas with my best acting I can't be
near good enough to earn love's recompense.
We're sorry we're not sorry. In a sense,
we're both and neither due apology.
Would anything be different? We can blame
me all we want, and I could even do
what you make like I should've. All the same
I'd owe you, right? No chance of something new.
Forgiveness has no meaning, no real aim
when what I'm really bad at's loving you.
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100% = X / X
When what I'm really bad at's loving you,
the best I do just makes me all the worse
the upside down and inside out reverse
what you expect of me. Sad déjà vu
how we're divided by ourselves, into
each other one on one, our mirror's curse
as absolute as math. I can't coerce
more truth of it than what you think most true.
And so we've nothing left. Completely done.
Undone's more like it. No more to have shared,
since giving all's the same as having none
and we've already taken all we'd dared.
Consider me love's void. I'm not the one
against whom all your loves should be compared.
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Throwback Ancient History
Against whom? All your loves should be compared
against which holy saint? Upon whose best
must all our worst improve? Each passion's quest
must measure up to whose high standard? Spared
no mercy by whose precedent? Declared
unworthy on whose sayso? Second-guessed
by whose presumptions? By whose litmus test
selected? For whom confidences bared?
It's over! done with! settled! obsolete!
irrelevant! before our time! old news!
as dead as you'd desired! deadweight! deadbeat!
deadwood! dead end! It's dead! It's ended. Choose
to live our love in our own day, complete
in our own moment, free of yester's views.
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A Girl's Monolith
In our own moment free of yester's views
secret braids of color bind a tight
threesome together bathed in blinding light
in our own dances hand in hand with who's
lonesome enough embraced enough to lose
love in life and life in love to write
abandoned stillborn touches of goodnight
dreams we'd scarred thick dark as one'd abuse
open face into fierce firestorm to share
reality intended opportune
except will I go? can't he? where?
you're seeing hearing cutting coming soon?
over the bed made home to our affair -
us three yet there beneath a rising moon.
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Exoterica
Us three: Yet there beneath a rising moon
inside another's shadow made to fit
through hungry thighs, through open heaven split,
yet have we not the voice of ancient rune
within us?
Their own one: What you impugn
creates your only truth. What you permit
destroys your freedom. What you've made of it
will lose by midnight all you'd gained past noon.
We never heard a word of it. They hadn't let
their silent moments break into our peace
so they we three quite easily forget
as we them can ignore. So does love cease
in voided lives born empty, breathless, yet
their one must keep what we three can't release.
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Rejection Accepted
Their one must keep. What we three can't release
their one must hold. What we three won't adjourn
their one must take. What we would not unlearn
they must pay homage to. Too strict police
to run their's street. Not shamelessly caprice
enough. Not thought that much of. Taciturn
in tune. What's too unwanted. No concern
for either our decline or their's increase.
Discarded objects' shadows do impose,
don't they, on territories newly claimed
so need must be put down. Rejected. Those
get left no chance of honor being named
except to gauge what comes against what goes
in terms of whose gets credit for whom's blamed.
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Love's Occultation
In terms of whose gets credit for whom's blamed
our bed lies at the eye of the eclipse,
with moonlight at her darkest in your hips
on me left blinded by his circles flamed.
For whom's intents whose purpose dies defamed,
our dance composes swirls on glides in flips
through open space. Raw unveiled passion slips
along deep crevices on satin framed.
Oh wait. No, my mistake. That's just a cloud
and one I should've known's not come as mine,
yet looking up to you's as disallowed
as much as if our orbits stood in line,
so I'll fall to the shadows of the crowd
without the silhouette of your design.
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A Sapling's Sonnet
Without the silhouette of your design
extending through the dark across the lake
to take his shore as yours, he'd never make
your branches to his stormy skies incline.
Without the potion of your root and vine
imbuing wind and soil, he'd never wake
beneath your canopy, but rather take
his place beneath your quiet forest shrine.
I see my way. Both in and through. And out.
What's unknown grows to what we will believe
as sure as oaks from smallest acorns sprout,
tomorrow with today's past lives to weave.
To weave. Yes, that I'll also see about
to give breath to all earth and sky conceive.
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Spring's Offspring
To give breath to all earth and sky conceive,
to bring light to all corners on the day,
to spread peace to each word bold visions say,
to reclaim hopes that fears and ignorance thieve,
to comfort ghosts of all who cannot grieve,
to reinvent all garbage and sewage and decay,
to color in the drab and the dim and the gray,
to make true love the promise all achieve,
may she who turns her circle round to spring
and he whose fertile seed mates true and sure
fill we who dance and they of whom we sing
with life reborn in innocence right pure
to melt through bitter winter's icy sting,
for death itself to offer certain cure.
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Something Apotropaic
For death itself to offer certain cure
against contagious love's dissembled smile
so as with something sure to reconcile,
one's resurrection can't be premature
else one's again exposed to the allure
and tempting eye and captivating wile
at risk of falling victim to love's guile
against which no believer can endure.
Say, tell me where to find that silver charm
you always wore around your neck? Your heart
is naked, open to harsh hurt and harm.
You sacrificed it? God, that wasn't smart.
Let's look see if we've something to disarm
the threat to life of love's capricious dart.
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Friday, the 13th
The threat to life (of love's capricious dart,
its poison proving meant's not good enough
unless both think so) is (not up to snuff
no matter how much sacrificed) to start
(there was a job, there was a place) to chart
a course (and all the other legal stuff
required of him to immigrate) to tough
it out together, then fall far apart.
It kills a man. Then kills him back to back
again until the man's past all unknown
and yet again until the man's lost track
and even yet again damned to his own
dark hell. All voided out. All lost. All black.
Unwanted. Turned away from. That alone.
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