Tag Archives: one more stone

EODERMDROMES:

1

Dreams you are brushing, dreams my hair, brushing.
My, your hair dreams
      dreams you’re brushing,
      dreams my hair brushing my…
Your hair dreams dreams,
you’re brushing dreams: My hair brushing my…
you are hair dreams.
Dreams you’re brushing dreams,
my hair brushing my…
your hair dreams.

2

post a pic post on facebook
      pic on a facebook post

2.5
post a pic
post on facebook
pic on a facebook post
post a pic post on facebook
pic on a facebook post post a pic
post on facebook pic on a facebook post

My only successful eodermdromes so far.

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TWBHYDSYBWN:

Pardon the awkward
giraffe of my affections.
Spindly-leggedly trotting
through the wastelands
of your acknowledgement.
Deceptive and doe-eyed,
peering effortlessly into
your third-floor bedroom
window but not on purpose,
I promise. Slowly chewing
with its soft mouth half open,
showering damp leaves down
upon you wherever you go.

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APWBTBWLDTRFM:

Not A Love Poem

I have feelings for you but mostly they start in my pants. So when we are pantsless
together, my feelings have nowhere to go but up, the way hot air must rise,
how you would rather look at the sky while walking, no matter the weather,
rather than study the undulations of a sidewalk that will, inevitably, lead to me.
No need to look so miserable when we kiss, though a lover is like a high ceiling
in a house you’ll never own, a beautiful reason you can’t afford. Still you belong
in the dreams where I have misplaced something valuable, the ones from which
I wake with my hands in the air, my mind turning cartwheels down the fairgrounds
of possibilities, and in the distance the hum of a great machine revving up,
unseen. Night is coming and all the lights must be set in motion, somehow.

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TWFJWSVWMTB:

You have been learning a new martial art. It is solely of the hands. Earth palm, you intone,
splaying your fingers so my grip on you falls away. Cloud palm, you whisper, so when I reach
to touch your face I find my fingers knocked back to my body, as gentle, I think,
as the many points of rain. In bed I bend my dark mouth to that of you which I can still kiss,
your shoulder, the ball sliding in the socket sliding under the skin to move
as the rest of you does, my man-sized machine, dear master of deflection.

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Protected: HYPERTEXT LOVE LETTER:

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TWFTBWTBS:

You want to build an elevator for outer space, with which a man,
hand over hand, could pull his ungrateful body from the earth’s

hold and onto the moon. You want to design a lunar home, give it
a hydroponic garden and a viewing deck. You want, you said,

to make me blush. I’ll take zero gravity, I’ll take the reddened
cheek, I’ll take the seat beside the oxygen scrubbers but really

all I want is to plant kisses on you and watch them bloom.

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WWDNTFWMHBLVMS:

To think about pain is irrelevant to the process.
One shoulders through it, strong-arms their way
around it; what matters is that you take it
into your own two hands. Or one hand,
if you have only one. Those missing a limb
do report the phantom pain, the twinge
in a finger not there, the ache of a writing hand
confiscated by the cruel world. Nobody cares
about the hurt that’s there to stay, because scars
are a fact. As thick and solid as the white line
that divides countries: The District of
What Had Happened right next to The Land
of What Will Make It Better. Which is populated
by kisses, I think, and time alone. And poems,
whether read or written, with a hand
long gone, always and forever twitching
under an imaginary weight.

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Renga #2 with esteemed poet Gian:

Much of my faith, I put
in high places. Heaven
notwithstanding. I loved,
once, a tall girl. Would
tiptoe, at times,
to see her better
from afar. To kiss her
was a world-record feat:
I’d get light-headed at
the altitude. She loved me
too, I think. The way God
touches all of us with
his smallest finger.
We’re grateful, even,
just to be acknowledged
by the Higher Being.
I spoke to her once
in the language of Eskimos
and blamed the seasons
between us for how she
was warm when I was frigid.
Now I am on a plane,
learning to forgive
even as I hurtle through
the sky, examining the clouds
for evidence of God.

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Renga #1 with esteemed poet Gian:

The point of scars is
to proclaim a new district
in the city of the body;
whether boundaries
or lines to be traced
with stains shaped like make-believe countries —
the way floodwater spills over sidewalks,
house-invading, receding only to deposit
heavy debris.
No need to talk about pain
when it is branded upon you —
peklat, sugat, in my country we say:
only those who know how to look back
can move forward. I don’t know
how to walk when crippled,
weighed down by baggage.
And yet the necessity of travel stays —
makes itself known, it sears itself
into skin, like sunburn. Like scars.
We carry onward even as the journey
is carving its map onto us.

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