A Toast

A parched throat makes for difficult speech… Instead of clearly communicating, you find yourself throat clearing, self jeering, eyes watering, mind wondering when this hacking will begin departing, all the while knowing that – it’s really not attractive.  You can see into souls through eye windows, the dimming glow as their response to your unintended show… It almost does not matter what you know, because like a dam, your words have lodged in your throat blocking your flow… Releasing spittle and foam at random intervals – overall damage is minimal, but the purpose in which you originally opened your mouth to complete has died all of its lives, and it’s game over – Nintendo.

But you know that it is not your fault… You needed just a bit of moisture, as some fine cuisine needs only a mere dash of salt… But without Mrs. Dash, appearance is divorced from success, like dollar signs taken off of cash… The end result being paper scraps… Tidbits, leftovers, unwanted – anything synonymous with trash… Because anything not done wholly simply will… not… last.  … And it is ironic because you can feel the tangibility of what it is you want to say deep inside your very being… Some wondrous thing – or perhaps simple – yet nevertheless unexpressed that only your eyes are seeing.  Ahhh if only you didn’t have a noose delivery!

A tendency to get choked up from the throat up when it’s something vital from your heart that needs expressing!  Vision is both a curse and a blessing… You wish that you could just pop a pill discreetly, or take a sip of some magical serum, to free you from this self induced delirium, after-all what good are above average thoughts if you must live in fear of them…?  … Looking… Searching… Waiting… Your soul knowing… That there is an answer… There is a way out of this moat… There is a cure – there is an antidote… There is a little known diner on the outskirts of town… A little further than just a ways away, but closer than too long would take… Open to any who care to pass through its doors into peace, and reverberating revelation… Who have an appetite that yields only unto satiation…

In this diner, the sparkling diamond glasses are for every occasion – for every moment in life is special.  Here – there is no such thing as wasted. No concept of the term “outdated,” no reference for existing without existence and purpose being mated… It’s not Heaven – but it surely is not earth… Just a small, easily missed diner… The menu?  Your heart’s desire.  The sign hanging over the counter only says “Higher.”  Order whatever you like, with whatever sides, anything you can think in your mind can be made manifest, for the deep recesses of thought – are who you are.

… There is but one drink served here however, and accompanies every meal… It unstops your throat, and has a rather curious feel… Smooth going down, but it can make your heart race, or your body shake… Tears may stream down your face – but tongues are always loosened, and obstacles are parted, that one may behold one’s goals… The ears become sensitive to the word “go,” ambition oblivious to the word no, and all too often the diner echoes with fearless declaration of “look out below!!!”  This – this special drink, birthed from the progression of time to meet human needs like dough… This elegant glass of shimmering power that can unblock your throat… THIS – is wine for the soul.

~The Wordsmith

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Trembling

I thought it was the sunlight I was afraid of. The tenuous tremors of having my shadows stripped away from me at long last under the howling brilliance of your soothing glow. The embrace of arms I almost didn’t believe in, for they had only ever existed in my dreams.

You, were only ever a dream.

A euphoria without face or form, just an instinct in sync in me, assuring, that there was a blade which cut through midnight’s velvet touch. That the stars were prophets foretelling your love.

And so I thought it was the light I was afraid of. Refusing to admit ownership of the fear that, having survived the storm unto the rainbow, I would follow your scent into the clouds only to discover that rainbows don’t exist. Terror buried itself deeper in my heart, exorcising the last vestiges of hope from their sacred coves bordering the open sea of my soft place. The tender string only your fingers could pluck.

I thought I was afraid of this moment- to discover that I didn’t measure up. That the dream had found me, but I was immune to miracles. I thought this was my fear…

Until I saw a man with guitar heart- it was ripped to shreds. In front of his kids, he shed all his tears, had nowhere to store em, no receipt or meds. Before he said a word, I looked in his eyes and I knew… This is what it looks like when the sun is violently torn away from the moon. When echoes are pillaged for their sound, when a DNA strand is unwound and rent in two. He wore his loss like a cloak; his agony like a heavy, second skin. Misery adorned him with her cruel diadem; his head dripped with the stinging mists of hellfire royalty.

And that’s when the veil dissolved into the abyss.

Away for now the form of man.

Behold the true fear where it stands.

… for your light to suddenly burn out, even as I am dancing in the midst of it.

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Dear Maya Part III

(Dear Maya Part I)

(Dear Maya Part II)

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It’s been three years since we’ve spoken. Four years since you’ve… you know.

I’ve gotta say- love doesn’t work the way I thought it did. All my loved ones seem to have to suffered more from my affections than they’ve been healed by it. The family saga has a few broken lines that left some pages bent… In desperation for life, I forced a chapter in… but that’s not the way of salvation is it? That’s not how it works.

Whenever something is forced, it explodes as soon as you let up on the pressure…

Happy birthday Grandma Angelou. It’s not all darkness and regret. I’ve been practi-seeing the rainbow moonwalk through the clouds, the music hums when it doesn’t howl, I don’t have to quit. Just needed to upgrade my kit. My heart beats to the cadence of a different set and although the rhythm is unfamiliar and makes me shiver, it’s not bad. Every time I crack the snare, I get more healing.

It’s been three years since we’ve spoken. Four years since you’ve… you know.

You’d be so proud of your daughter- Auntie Oprah has dug her heels in as a world changer. Although nothing about her was ever plain like the main hangar, her walk in legacy makes her creativity unrestrained like blank paper! Some people still call her wayward- but the non way makers always have a wasteful way with words.

Poetry is a lifestyle.

Poetry is a gift.

The life is the gift which is the style…

Poetry is a slow dance with vulnerability.

Dear Grandma Angelou. It’s been three years since we’ve spoken. Four years since you’ve… you know.

In all honesty, I still feel like I’m a step behind everything I’m meant to be- but in due honor of your truth training, I’m not even close to giving up.

I still keep my head turned towards the light. ❤

Happy birthday Grandma Angelou.

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The Hang Up

This is my least favorite part

My cheek lines narrow, deep, wide, concealing desire, avant garde. Because I’m smiling so hard.

Telling you my ridiculous stories, startled and intrigued that you’re still listening; digging out my pad and pen to prick the tip of bliss and drip inspiration from clouds to lips. 

Gesturing widely with my hands, fingers speaking an unsigned language through a megaphone, hoping these butterfly ripples will reach you on your pillow and that it’ll feel like- I’m laying next to you.

Sharing our day together. Splitting the frustration with our kids. Edging out the sheet wrinkles with the smooth gliding of our hips, and always competing to be the first to suggest ice cream as the sacred remedy. 

I learned a long time ago that sugar can fix anything. So draw your lips to me and I’ll frame it in the space between our heartbeats.

I’ve been cleaning my room a lot lately. I know you’re not the company I’ll soon keep, but it’s a Zeus streak, catching lightning, every blue week, cuz I’m noob training, on the glued dais, monsoon waiting, for food payment, thoroughly unamused at my flowering chartreuse painting, I put so many words together it’s like a puzzle factory sold their pieces for stock in the picture and asked me to teach the curriculum. 

My room is clean. I’m a king preparing for a queen. 

The glow of my laptop is like a saber to the light- it calls to me. Missions left unfinished on my gaming screen. I’ve got a morning routine, several books to read and I try to get them done early because everything comes to a halt when you’re calling me.

I wanna do everything.

And I wanna talk to you.

It’s a strange paradox that lives in my mind- if I got my wish for us to talk all the time, the waves would lose the tide and the ocean would set on fire. Not talking to you is what gives us something to talk about. 

We’ve been talking for hours now. I love it when your voice pliés and I can hear your smile. Feel your smile. Like warm honey pooling across my chest.

And that is why this is my least favorite part… how can the night be good if it’s just me with my thoughts? This is my least favorite part…

Because it means our time has come and gone.

Away to sleep…

To awake in the morn.

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Clear

The worst part is that there is no obsession. No craving. I am not passionately thinking of you in the sunset’s silky glow, and I, the breathless horizon patiently waiting to be wrapped in the drunken warmth of your prismatic embrace.

There is none of that.

I sit here. Clear headed and winded. When we converse, I walk around and gesticulate, but after the goodnight bid flees our lips I am frozen again. My heart is stop motion cinema and you control the lens. Every click of your affections makes my whole world shudder, and I blink-

And wanna do it all over again.

I am the poet with the pen, but I wanna give you my notebook and a stack of pencils. So that when you leave, I can breathe deep of your eraser shavings and remind myself that love doesn’t have to be perfect to work properly. Sometimes it’s about the fingers writing the letters- canvassing caresses over the curses even if it’s done sloppily. Soft sigh. Slow motion eye flap. Your name is my homily.

I don’t miss you, am not love blinded by you, am weighed down by no obsession… Which is the worst. Because that means you’re not a phantom and whatever we’re developing… is real. When words lapse, I peacefully count the ticks between your breaths. I am in no hurry with you, because I’m not afraid to lose you, which is justified because you’re not mine and I’m not yours too.

… but maybe I wanna be.

In the end though, it’s all just a burnt mission. Feelings betray Jedi, that’s why I fein indifference. Romance is a cameo, brief character sans appearance. 

The only true love stories are fan fiction…

Holy Ground

As I pave the lane through my growing pains, I’ve noticed I walk differently now that my armor’s changed.

I’m a little more selective with who I expose my cracks and chinks to… a little more protective over the parts that still don’t work quite right.

My flaws are sacred.

Tongue is laden, not with seductive toxins drained from rose petals, but with the burden of bearing the shield of Goliath. There is no protection for the priests inside the tabernacle walls, they must guard themselves by what they speak, before they let anyone in at all-

And I’m the same.

So if I show you the holes in my magical perfection… the wounds where blood still leaks and hasn’t quite dried… know that I’m not interested in having to defend myself against you. Rather, I have begun the true hero’s journey of discovering what it means…

To trust you.