Feb 13
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Over the Snow

Warm light after a winter wideness.
I keep walking down the street, plowing softly, 
each lit window a church bell melody. 

An unmade god lives under the new snow.  
our city was built on a chess board, 
built with numb fingers, pink and alive.

I push through the the illuminated darkness,
knees shaking, footprints freshly obscured, 
hands in my pockets, hair windblown and frozen.
Feb 09
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To Desire the Godess

The methodology of beauty:

between piano chords, we listen to the rain fall. It splashes into the river. I am gone, lost through holes knife-point whittled into a set of reed pipes, lost to the rising wetland water. Each heart-beat is scattered, coordinated like a flight of swallows. 

Homesexual romance is like a broken mirror. Two friends, two lovers, miss-matched comedies and tragedies. You’re my better half, seen through a raindrop, wobbling with delicate viscosity and falling with perfect arrowdynamic slant. 

Our bones are one. Our flesh is separate and stinking with perfume. In a series of dancing angles, we break like silk. We share our breath, our dream-scarred cigarette smoke, our deep-belly sorrow, through the sacred gate of our lips.

To love is to desire the goddess, to lose yourself between beats.
Feb 03
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The Metronome

I am terrified of what it means to be alive,  
terrified of the queasy absurdity of living, 
the spring-flower-hot-oil rhythm of life.  

Trilling along a relentless number-line, 
we step over our self-constructed cliffs.
I think mathematical relationships are proof

that God is real and that we discovered Him. 
Our good-bad heartbeats are caught between
the loose geometry of falling-dead leaves 

and a cruel metronome.
Jan 31
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Your persistent algebra tears me from myself. 
After our kiss, my creaking timbers were finally composed. 

I've been waiting for a secret knowing. 

Under the covers, warm and full of light, it came to me:
the sun is real, but in every dew-drop lives a thousand stars. 

We are lampshades, you and I, with arms made to caress,
with tummies and lungs and breath,  

Did you see the moon last night? It was lost behind the clouds, 
behind the hands you held over my eyes.
Jan 24
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New day

We are made of flesh: 
                 pink and unseen.   

Hands pressed together in prayer, 
lips sealed shut, eyes closed, 
fetal and kneeling.  

Tender and raw:
           to be human is to wait for morning, 
to collect mason-jars 
and save them for a rainy day, 
to watch them fill up with sky-water.

I found my heart in the cloudy sunrise
and the fresh touch of a downpour, 
cascading with my blood-river.
Jan 18
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Pink and red

Your lips are pink. I can’t tell if it’s lipstick or love. 
I am frowning, halted, playing hopscotch with my breath, 
                                        but you are swathed in that pink dress, 
                                        as guileless as the summer I tried to paint as stifling.  

To falter is to wait to be sophisticated, 
                                        to wait until a pink heart turns red.

Jan 12
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Liturgy of Cut Forsythia

We dissect our tangerine-skin to it’s etymological etching, 
peeling until we are beautiful and expansive,
like a flowering tree that doesn’t know how to keep itself warm, 
fingernails releasing essential oils from corpse-memory.  

Under spring’s uncompromising light each leaf is exhaustingly complex. 
So cut your forsythia, save your gold for cloudy days. 
Remember God made us ugly and abstract so we could domesticate fire. 
Jan 11
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To be the perfect woman for a poet, 
a cold-brick romantic in a flapper dress!  
I've started eating butter without bread.    

Justine! Lifeless and exquisite, teach me how to be a goddess. 
Godless, I would collar my little men clerics 
as they knelt, pontificating their sadness to my satisfaction.  
Jan 08
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Nobody's Empire

I’m a poet. I write my body and soul with the desperation of a prostitute. I dissect my pain and passion. But when I sit down to describe my illness... I am on the edge of nobody’s empire. My words fail me. It’s like staring into the void. ME, or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, is a complex, multi-system chronic disease that feels like having a persistent flu and leaves you utterly exhausted, both mentally and physically.

I found Belle and Sebastian last spring, right as my symptoms started to worsen. Bedridden with nothing to do except listen to music, I fell in love with Belle and Sebastian's lyrics. Their songs were delicate, gritty explorations of life’s glorious triviality. In a poetic tribute to the band, depressed by the pandemic and my failing body, I wrote: “My dearest Belle and Sebastian you break yourselves into pieces so casually/ such casual living is beyond me.” 
Jan 06
poem 0 comments challenge: Warnock
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Today is not yet History

On Christmas Eve we stayed up late talking about Eastern European politics because the Berlin wall fell thirty years ago. 

Today, Georgia turned blue. But revolutions don’t become history until our books simplify them into the methodically dismemberment of brick walls: pickaxes, tie dye, singing in the streets. 

“Just an old sweet song keeps Georgia on my mind…” 

Today, the Senate was ransacked. Today, the American flag, the American capital, was defiled by white supremacists. Today, Nancy Pelosi’s office was vandalized. Today, officials found two bombs stashed in cardboard boxes. Today, a woman was shot by rioters. Today, five people were killed by guns in the land of the free. 

“Just an old sweet song keeps Georgia on my mind…”