Before the Leap

I see ruins all around me.
I am not ruined.
Everything in decay;
I’m still here.

Whatever you got coming,
Lord, I’m ready.
Lemme say it clear:
I’m putting this on blast: I’m gonna last.
I’m gonna last.

Whatever you’re gonna throw,
I’m still here.

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I don’t get you sometimes.
Isn’t this what you wanted?
You asked, pleased even
and it was provided.
We’re not talking monkey’s paw territory here:
you wanted intimacy.
You wanted us to be closer about the important things
and here we are
talking about the important things.
I’m here to help.
I’m not laughing.
I’m not judging
and I’m here for you.
All the arch and irony
and alliteration is left at the front door.

I want to help you now.
Don’t shut me out.
This is what you asked for
for the longest time.
What is wrong with it now?
Let me in.
Let me be your friend this time.
Don’t make this such an impossible job.

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You may ask why
your name doesn’t come up
in my poetry and stories,
songs and essays,
and I’m sorry, my dear,
if I begin to snicker in your face.

Were I to start citing referenced inspiration,
I’d be here all week
and you’d be tired,
so very tired of hearing your name
hiss from my lips,
almost as tired
as I’d be of repeating those same beautiful syllables
in such glorious redundant succession.

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Past Few Evers

I’m guessing, then,
that this is the end
of our correspondence.
From the words I’ve failed to hear
been unable to see
have been completely without any sense of
these past few evers
I’m pretty sure that all the words between us
have now been explored
and exploded
and all that’s left
is for the last few particles to settle.

I suspect that there are only my particles left
occasionally blowing
landing here and there
reaching out to you sporadically
and hoping there is something left to say.

But the resounding silence
is all that responds
proving again and again
the posited theory
that this is the end of our correspondence
the minute I push send
for the last time.

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At a placard describing the ginormous statue
of the ministrostrophic magnifity of the leader-in-chief,
the word magniloquent was proudly on full display.
This was a foreign country
so their mastery of the angled tongue
might be construed as minority-portioned
at best
but I found it curiosity creational,
that, with such little grounding in anglespeak,
such foreign tongued teeth would dare
to give rise to such barbarish innovations
and assume they’d have means
to make something
that would serve us better
than we’d serve ourselves?
What in our history
would suggest that?

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The Spice of Life

You scare me.
Goddamn, you scare me.
You scare me more than you did yesterday
and you scared me then
but mostly because I was so frightened to talk to you.
Now, I’m scared of what you might say
what you might know.

You know too much.
You seem to know too much.
I’m scared you know too much.
I’m scared how much you know.
You look at me
and say things
and ask things
and allude to things
that suggest other things…
Just what DO you know?

I’m pretty sure I could learn to hate you
twice as much as I now yearn to know you
want to learn you
hope to have you
in any way that possession makes any sense
for one of your sensitivities.
But you don’t make sense to me
for as much as you seem
to unearth every gleam of me
and as much as I try to inch into understanding
of any aspect of you
I find over and over again
that I am lost
just as I am lost
by your confounded pronouncements.

You scare me
with so much that you say and advise
and I don’t even know
if all of what I’m saying’s meaningless
but if anyone could tell me
I suppose it would have to be you.

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Mixed Blessing

We gave each other mixed messages.
You said you wanted me
but didn’t like men.
I said I was all man
but acted like a frightened baby boy
howling at the smallest smart.

You seemed like you could take on the world
but any contradiction
would throw you for a loop.
I claimed I wanted to be with you
but made no room for you in my life.
You said nothing was wrong
but made clear that everything was wrong.
I made like I could handle it.

We gave each other mixed messages
pulling one way
then another
delivering signals to all sorts of stations.
In this way
our affair was truly unique.

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You say you are happy with who you are
and I would like to believe you
but nobody tells the truth
so why would you be the one
to be honest in a way
like no other?

I wish you were happy with who you were
but I am not happy with who I am
so why should I expect
anything else from anyone else?

You are certainly unlike any creature
I have ever met:
stronger and more secure
but strangely delicate
seemingly sensitive
at the strangest times.
Try as I might
I can’t begin to decode you.

So you may be exactly as you say
but I think you’re sad
even when you say something else
and I wish I could change that
even when I say something else
no matter how unlikely
any of that may be.

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If This Is It

This is the podcast you never listened to.
This is the story you never heard.
This is one of the thousands
of thousands of tales
full of sound and fury
signifying yadda yadda yadda.

The world is full of this
which is an anagram for shit, anyway.
There is too much of this all around us
for anyone to care
for anyone to listen
– for anyone to absorb all of this
any of this.

This is a lot to take in.
I don’t know why
you’d even begin to try.

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Political Song for Ray Brown to Sing

(to the beat of a guitar body
being thunked sporadically
by a white boy with dreds)

There’s a rumble going on up there in the Bronx.
Once you hear what’s happening, you will be zonks’ed!
Here’s a story that I think you’ll find of worth.
of an apartheid in an apartment in the north.
Free Barry!
Free Barry!

There’s a man who’s been kept hidden away and enchained.
He hasn’t been accused of anything – or even framed.
You keep asking me if there’s any other way.
I keep shouting the only words I have to say:
Free Barry!
Free Barry!

This shit is wack!

This shit is wack!

I don’t think you get the severity of this:
We haven’t seen Barry ’round in hours and I’m pissed!
If I don’t get word that he’s secure or that he’s fine,
then I’ll have to resort to end on a non-rhyming line!
Free Barry!
Free Barry!
This shit is wack!

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