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Thursday, December 25, 2014

TFLN Poem - Cuckolding, Contemplation

Hey.

Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.



 (434):

Maybe if I get to know him I'll stop wanting to fuck his wife so much.

Sure,
He’s got the personality
Of a stone.

But that’s just
Me
Making a hasty imprint.

People are unkempt
Yards,
Hidden from time.

Given access,
Given the permission of grace,
There’s got to be some dormant dram of color.

Because she once savored him
Because she once matched his murmured breath
And found him flavorful.

Thursday, December 18, 2014

TFLN Poem - Missing, Muddled

Hey.

Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.



(401):


Cradling three pieces of a Lincoln Log set
And
I’m wearing what’s left of my broken pair of glasses like a
Monocle
There’s a fistful of auburn hair inside my wallet
But small ones
Curled
Got all these clues and yet, no clothes
Inside somewhere     Can’t see where the other wall meets
But it smells like pencil shavings
And fish
Please   someone feed my lizard
And match up the pic of the hair thatch
With our circle
Buy some tape or superglue
Head towards the ocean
I think I can hear the ocean
Pack my pair of emergency chinos
I’ll be waiting

Monday, December 15, 2014

Time I Whisper - First Draft of New Song

Hey.

I feel like I'm either close to shutting down or to the start of career-defining work.

Not sure what.

Winter and depression and doubt can muddy that diagnosis.

But I'm here.  I'm clicking quietly away.


Got a new song.  For me. For anyone wondering out there if it's their moment to eke out a sense of purpose, to be known.  To be bold, and compassionate, and sharing. To prosper. Even be loved.

Here we go.


lyrics

first verse

ive given up on suffering

chant
is it my time i whisper
is it my time i whisper

tucking in for winter
ill see you spring

chant

prechorus one
see me lay down
beg the night my soul to keep
know
ive never earned love good as sleep
head crooked
watch the silence fill the room
year spent chasing urequiteds sweet perfume

chorus
legs
if you gotta run
talent
if its hard won
signal
like a flare gun
lets make it binding
make a promise to finding
what were worth
dearth of motivation
moldy conversation
leaden deprivation
am i unwinding
is the madness still grinding
me

verse two
im getting smaller
take less space
chant
staring out the subway
and i see my fathers face
chant

prechorus two
see me talk less
every word its a thought grenade
you wont catch me turning round
seeing what ive made
blood
the lost traveller
my guide
ill course
ill scribble on
this little wick of pride

chorus

instrumental

verse three
ive buried loss
so calm collect
chant
still mouthing syllables
in a manner circumspect
chant

prechorus three
see my debts paid
by my spartan living style
im just a monk serving nothing but my own guile
write
and i summon in the air
a little nonsense
no one seems to care

chorus

Thursday, December 11, 2014

TFLN Poem - Texts, Truth

Hey.

Here's this week's  www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.




If it’s not a grainy,
Sun-shy letter, stuffed in a shoebox,
Move after move,
Almost forgotten,
 Or a foggy evening
Overlooking the Edinburgh center,
Hands locked, creeping quietly between the mausoleums,
Trespassing, sharing.  Silent, yet staring at the cages
Of the dead.  (Their mortsafes, their iron ribs,
Hoping to spare one last indignity.  A leg torn here,
A body resurrected there,  
A fresh, shining corpse sold to a medical school
Otherwise. )

If it’s not
Strip poker on a gnarled shag carpet
Or
Watching you spin yourself
And shake to fits of giggles
As this boomerang in my impatient grip
Remains determined
To exist solely
As a stick,

If it’s not even a gram
Of disarming, aching hope,
If all it is,
From word to word,
(these disposable and effortless words)
Is lather,
The dull, warm compress of common talk,
And no blade,
Then stop, Now. 
Let us see each other.  Let us be loud, bracing.
And let us love clearly again.  

Thursday, December 4, 2014

TFLN poem - Charity, Courtship

Hey.

Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.




There’s no epigram
On my goddamn mons pubis.

Emma Lazarus didn’t scribble out some
American Exceptionalism between
My thick and curlies.

Ergo,
I don’t want the tired,
The wretched
The homeless, the tempest-tost .

Yearn to be free away from me.

My clit wasn’t supposed to end up
Like a dented can of apple pie filling
In a food drive.   Lacquered in dust. Pawed at with
Itchy boredom by the disenfranchised.  No tools or time
To make a decent, thoughtful meal. 

But, what’s left?

Where’s my wild-eyed man who needs no saving,
No rehabilitation.  Someone who smiles
In the dark, when there’s no one left to please.
A man with a landscape of scars, thin white constellations
Of open, examined suffering.    Not hidden.  Not raw. 
Ornaments of kindness.     Where is that earnest, unblinking love…