Tag Archives: one more stone


In court with the current conqueror

we can laugh about the others. “He

doesn’t look like he takes care of

himself,” said Alfred of Paul. Later,

cruelly, “he is a child and an asshole.”

Of another is pronounced, “he is a 

twat.” Preferences in neckties, in music,

in authors, these are all called forth

and sharpened as weapons before 

the eyes of the glad traitor, who despite

the vicious gleamings is never struck 

dumb, who holds like a key inside of her

the store of raw material. Memories 

under heat and pressure turn into

diamond, the hardest thing there is. 

She knows whoever is most often 

made a fool is in fact

owner of the throne. 

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Theory of Beauty #1 (Adrian)

Hands behind his head and broad back to the bed, 
you he said make me feel strong, only to correct
himself graciously, pardon me: stronger

I have examined creatures up close and from far away. 
Some are made of brick and others of gold; I look at him
and imagine how the ancient civilizations invented god.

Temples were made by slaves like me. Greater women
have knelt to smaller altars for weaker desires. Temples
are made by slaves like me, in the service what they know
is not religion but unassailable truth. Blessed be my rock,
wrote the prophet, exalted be my God. The bigger the belief,
the stronger the foundation, the longer may it live.

There are building blocks to your age-old beauty.
It comes in bulk. Baptize me. 

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Have you been thinking? she hissed as I stumbled into her apartment
at two in the morning, reeking of metaphysical unease. All night, I told her,
a fine spirit, aged twenty-five years in the oak barrel of my mind. Lets me
feel grown-up, I told her, makes me look older than I am, to drink deep from
this dark spirit, to choose to have it on the rocks.

Something too-easily dashed off this morning. Am unhappy with my writing but at least I’m writing. 




Washing the dishes because I want to eat.
The rest I wash because I want to be neat.
You would scoff at the rhyme, I think, but
you have been gone so long. Longer than
these dishes have been in the sink, I think.
In this one, there was fruit, in that one,
pink meat. I wash the sugar bowl as well,
no need for it now that you have been gone
so long and I take my coffee black, I think.
So long, I said to you, and you turned to me
with a face full of glass. Why are the lines in
your poems suddenly so long, you asked;
so long, I said again, as the glass slips out of
my soapy hands and clinks down through the
water toward the bottom of the sink. No longer
hungry, I dry my hands. I think.

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The Kiss

The ceremony of greeting and goodbye was held
delicately between them, balanced on their shoulders.
Their faces tilting as if closed-eyed considering
one another. Her hand at the nape of his neck,
holding the kiss together. They are not thinking of the kiss;
it is happening undemanded, entirely without them.
She is thinking silently about open doors. A misplaced key.
When one finds a key, one also discovers the absence
of a lock. The presence of treasure. In his head,
he is humming a song. He was not sure she would know it,
yet here she goes, face uplifted, somehow singing along.

I think I have returned. Hello.

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“How are you? I remember scrutinizing your bookshelves
but not if you had very short, bitten fingernails.”

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An ekphrasis, Finish What You Started, on the Philippine Free Press Online.

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Past joys have left me unable to write,
be it my hands kept busy pleasing the loved object,
constantly smoothing sheets or hair back from high
foreheads, or plainly held at my sides away from
what I once held dear above all else – words and what
they could do for me about you. Which is: everything.
What I mean is that until today I thought all beauty
was indescribable, and love the property of pop music,
and pain the domain in which I was to wander, scribbling.
Still there is nothing in the dictionary about
how you make me feel, and when I look up "desire"
in the thesaurus they still have not described
the way you taste at three in the morning. But to have
you to turn to in the dark of night, and to move against
you in my sleep, the books are all sorely lacking in
where we are with each other, still so far from "goodbye,"
but the difference is that now I try, I try.

I’m back, I think.

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“Go deeper than love, for the soul has greater depths,”

but the depths are darker, and every day the blips from the small radio
cradled inside of me grow fainter and further apart, as if all this time
I have been drifting away from the source.

                                                                  When I said I would follow
you to the ends of the earth I didn’t know you would walk so fast.

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The mind that came alive when your mouth met mine is working overtime,
so notice that the lipstick for when I go to meet you is long-wear but not as long
as you keep your distance, thanks to the equilibrium of electromagnetic forces
that avow we can never really touch anyway, there being no actual physical push
in the universe, though we both believe that people who squeeze your upper arm
by way of greeting must all be quarantined and condemned unless they learn
that magnetism is really only repulsion in reverse, so hail that big crunch
that killed your great-grandfather and birthed the city of your intelligence
or whatever it was that gave you your last name, bringing you to a local notary
one September morning hoping to secure an affidavit for the loss of virginity,
thinking idly about the unicorns you would never saddle, celebrate the pocket
ghosts and the little demons of unfamiliar bedsheets, hooray for the shape
of the universe that will ultimately decide its end, and thank you forces above
for the battering ram that is only a less subtle version of the lockpick, I am
pounding ungracefully at your heart, hoping the universe is a sphere after all,
so when I stand on some high peak I can actually look at the back of my head
and from there admire the view.

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