9 May 2010 § Leave a comment

he smells of tobacco heavy
and rich alcohol too,
as he runs his left hand
through his hair,
his right around you –

and you soak up the seconds
of his imperfections,
blindsided by sunsets
and poor sight, sensual
attention and passionate fights.

he is midwest purity, pious,
narrowminded with vices
that sometimes are blue and violet,
but he says he’s all right around you.

when you’re high and the colors
in his mind are flying, like
the swirling death of stars and
the nebula’s eulogy hymn about
him, whom, who
has the energy to love
and to move
but not quite enough to
seem human when he needs to,
take note of the room that he’s
given to you and write a poem,
write a song, there’s nothing
you can do – he’s gone.

yes, this hymn with that rhythm
is black magic, written and warned
by witches and lords the world over,
so let’s begin this once again with
his intent to listen, the future of him:

off he goes, with the rifts
he’s gifted with, your love
and origins, bright suns and
eyes that squint with
Shakespearean innocence,
a vile story of the tragedy he’s
delivered you in child form,
his violent version of reality.



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