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Posts published in June 2011

My Own You

Stand around and watch you
Somewhere only eyes can reach
You bother to look back for noises
Not for my stare.
Seems fair; I’m not important
To you;
I just watch you, alone,
The nights, but always starting over
I forget/–did I count one for the last?

The shoulders are but barriers
To your smile, your scowl, your
Changing of your skin to mimic
Those you’ve seen before feeling
The way you do– or so they say.
I place a face on you, your neck
Balancing so gracefully the entire
Beauty of this small, 4-walled world.
Don’t worry, I don’t want you–
You’re taken, I can tell. The ring,
The stolen glances quickly given to the floor–
I see you with their arm around you;
You call me, “creep,” and look away
As though my bolts ‘ve shown through,
Or my snout came out. ‘Is the way
Of things we don’t care for– humility
Is lost and finds its way to the other side
Of the room, where I am, and waits
For my eventual realization that
To look is to touch with eyes, and
Touching is a very personal matter
Best left to lovers, not observers.
I wish you knew I don’t care about you.
You mean to me as a magazine cover
To a teenager saving up for their first car.
You are but an image, a way to know
I can find my own you, no matter
Who you are.


Live with myself and try to
In as much as doing of a word can be
But I only live when my mind can’t continue
To find my own you.

I hate them afterward (read of shame).txt

I tend to marvel at my own writings shortly after they’ve been saved, despite always later wondering what I was thinking, and letting them fall from favor upon my remembrance of the idea that I am older, wiser, if by seconds. And, let’s face it: seconds mean a lot when a mistake takes a batting of the eye, or the misstroke of a key.


The pregnant silence eats random amounts of time, waits until you’re in bed asleep to ask your attention, and always makes you try to listen for a kick.

We are a lot like the moth

We’re a lot like the moth trapped on the inside of the door. Hands are there to help us, carry us to freedom, let us fly once we are safe enough to do so. But, we, like the moth, fight these hands. We know not what the lips behind them say, we know nothing of their intentions; so, we fight. We flap our winged gums, we flail our hands and feet wildly, and we stop only once we’re spent and cannot move without fear of falling. In that flapping and flailing, we forget about the hands. They’re a backdrop to our reality; they become but a secondary concern to the feeling of not persevering. We fear failure and panic in our anxieties of what we are not able to do. But, those hands remain. What seems like an exhaustive lifetime to the moth trapped against the door is but a second to the hands and their lips. We have just preserved ourselves in the tired wilting of our bodies. We have not persevered and we have not found freedom. The hands, seeing our tormented selves, is able to lift us from that world behind the door and escort us to the safety of the garden. We, overcome with joy and seeing our escape, leave the hands behind in a show of fantastic and unbridled victory. The hands fall to the side, triumphant in their goal. I say, do not forget those hands. They have saved more than you, and have taken much longer than our own lives to devote to doing so. Be thankful for the outreached hand, even those you fear, even those you don’t understand or cannot see. God will always be where you are; not because He comes with you, but because you are always in His presence.

Wife (more)

the simple touch
of a wife in love
can bring about
an appreciation
for a life lived fair.
And the days
We look back on
Mean the most when
We stop to think about them;
we’re not going to bother to…
And the days
We look back on
Mean the most when
I’m sleepy on a highway,
Waking with your touch;
Way it should be;
And the days
We look back on
Mean the most when
Your hand moves into mine,
Our fingers walking along;
Way it should be;
And we just hold
On to today,
As though
Looking back
Won’t happen
Anytime soon
Because today is
Way it should be.


can laugh, we
can love, we
can throw barbs,
but we will remain
in refusal of surrender.