Naked Poetry

I’m sorry I couldn’t complete your heart.

I have a violence inside me. You may not have guessed it bt the way I read Maya Angelou in the corner but it’s there, I do. On my run now. Thinking what if I turned it into THE run. I don’t need to be here. But she’s here…

I’m parting ways now. NO more time or space for an influx of change. Suppose I loved you. Suppose I should. I know I could. Bak into my run. The sun sets into shoulders and I sprint the last 300 feet until I can no longer write inside this diary.

You said:

“You are beautiful and poison all at the same time”

I SAY:

As your poison. As your person. As your perfect. Friend. Elixir. As yourself. As beautiful as you can remember. As far back as I can reach. As your enemy. As your classic. As your moment. Erased haphazardly in the sun. Left to travel on. Left to spit on. As your other hand. As your morning coffee drips into the middle of the night and onto your rocking chair, dreaming of beauty--not as poison, but as far back as you can imagine-- see me there. Into the glow that you remember. As my poison. You are missing. As far back as I’ve been believing I’ve been a believing in things of your specific nature. As your poison. As your elixir. And entire life awaits. As your last embrace.

Meditation camps.

Harmony of luck

Orchestrating acerbity of mind

numbing poetry

too young to be reminded

of a time before theirs–

Role-model Folks,

taming Russian talent

training human heroes

while I challenge my home at night

Pacing…

for more impact.

Dynamically involved with

the complexity of restoration

created by the lines in your words.

Depict anything, my best friend,

and I will be there

listening

for influence

wishing to steal

more of my breaths

I shall sustain coma.

Grouping pools of reflection

learning now my father’s voice

telling me of his fatherland

telling me childhood stories

of how he swam with sharks

on la gonave.

Of gingerbread houses–

caribbean pink,

aquamarine green,

folk-like fairy tales

leaving us Lasting

Some place along the

line of Peace:

watching music

become prose.

Reconfiguration of

the human mind

left Panting

like a piano piece

ending in the middle

of a minor sixth.

I gave you eight matches.

You used seven to abandon me.

I saved the last one just in case

I want to go too.

O, I miss you when I speak.

When I laugh it isn’t me it’s you

You came back.

You came back loud while I tried

to yell you don’t need arms to Hug me

Looking at your lips is love enough

to live in life on docks with no legs

in water with no reflection

we’ll come back loved.

Hands splashed together in holy

holy the Worthless, uncanny

their cars and how they always match

my socks

Just right

on the time, Just slight sort of stolen

Sexy in your best words

Perfect in your prose.

How do you feel about this?

I love the sound of your bones and

Talking is not retro

Neither is love

Or films that feature love

I've got a headache

I've got a headache full of stardom

And woes, misty fires and 50 seconds of thrill

I still hear those three words and

you--you made them more delicate than I've ever heard

Your whisper is a killer

Kill me again

"Trust me", I say "I know how to die."

Next up I drive by the front yard

Where three boys are always playing catch, I notice the quarterback

this time he pauses before he throws the football and suddenly I see the man he will become

A light turns on

He's in the waiting room at the hospital waiting on the arrival of his first born

He's all right

He's only crying

He's all right

He's only crying

Later I wake up from a nap

And the same little boy whispers to me

I watched the right side of your triangle disappear but it will come back

As long as you laugh

As

Long

As

You

Laugh

There will be no dreaming in this house. Dreaming is for people who build things in their minds but never break earth. Zero pollution and no noise. Absolutely no noise. Dreaming's for my Only One. Friends the size of my hand. Dreaming is for timeless beauties and gleaming skin-- pricey concrete and forgotten snow ripped apart by fire. Dreaming is for that snow. For people who get run over-- by their own friends.

“I think it pisses God off when you walk through a field of flowers and do not notice the color purple.” -Alice Walker

for Robyn

let's lay our bones to rest,

my friend.

This dust has been collecting

Us for days now

And

Our days are years.

No beginning

Or ending

It is always four AM

Where we are

It's always four AM

Lay your bones to rest

My friend

You're gonna

Dance yourself

To death