The rain is long and the night is short and I am somewhere in between missing you and remembering you and telling myself that one should never start with rain, especially when we began with a sleek, soaked summer at a bar where the drinks were overpriced and there were far too many people in the universe and wild, furious cars pounded the city for a prowl of flesh fit for the lame taxidermist of deflated leather, for the chameleon gawk, for the carnality of another person passed by who will not be so privileged to sit in this vehicle and feel infinite in the cough of the wind, but my hand brushed hers, did you hear that – my hand brushed hers, and in the bar I felt her thigh as well as if I were handwriting and forgot to curl a letter, and she, you, looked at me, really looked at me, with a gaze that proved that one needed to do no more than be to become the world, that said that all of art was inaccurate at best and a gross approximation at worst, that held a heartbeat in each blink, and that asked me to realize that every poem is an entire collection of poetry, every slight hug is copious, public lovemaking , and every chance to kiss in every place should be taken every time, and I could not understood why I was here instead of someone else, someone greater, someone who would know what to do this heart babbling madness, someone who would ask in frank foolishness where were the men who could see she was a dream awoken, where were the men who knew her smile could solve any problem even if it would create them, where were the men who watched as I watched for her, you, dear, was to be taken in in each minute measure – carefully at first so as to not forgo one thing like a baby learning its limits, then in overwhelming openness that the spring buds must feel after a lingering winter, then not at all for to think she could be detained, contained, was ridiculous smallness that we, and I, have known, and she did not make one small with a laugh that cracked the darkness with a sweet, soft brightness, with a demeanor that put her in the center of any room despite now sitting at the corner of the bar, with a loveliness, simply that – love, love, love, which brings us back to my place where I cannot understand how I got here with a butt that can bend the moon and pull the waters of my blood to it and that is matched by breasts that hold up the jealous air and that lead to lips with a sudden, unremovable redness as though you had spent your whole life kissing or that somehow there was a flame in you, and there was, for though I meant to say something after the after, to be clever, to show that I am worthy of this being who was worthy of every being, in a space of a night, everything changed. Light reigned. Words were wrecked. And I became yours.
Yours yours yours,
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You did it again!! Magnificent pure magic!
Sent from my iPhone
You’re too kind, jenny!
a little hard for this old guy to read. Sentences packed so tightly it is harder to follow! sorry man! I suppose the solid block is deliberate—a part of your designed presentation?
I am an old guy, too. A large block of small print is hard for these old eyes to digest. I am going to suggest that poetry can be as much about open spaces and linear progression as the words alone. Genius, ideas, love and impressions, all need room to breathe and grow if they are to flower and flourish. I liked much of your work. I would like to see this again after you’ve given your lines room to breathe.
Oh Boy—-Another Old Guy! I currently use 200% magnification. If I can’t follow it under 200%—I give it a pass. :0(
Great story. You should think of writing a book. They need fresh ideas in the world.
I wrote one: https://www.amazon.ca/mess-you-everywhere-inside/dp/1387942646! Let me know if you read it.