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Pinching

I am stuck
at the beginning,
pinching
at rice like
the expectant mother
pausing
out of breath
mid-stair.
The other side is often pregnant.

Intention grows
even in
chilled winds,
germinating while
we fixate elsewhere,
though
I don’t always recognize
its birth.
Tomorrow takes its own word for granted.

Ambition shoves us
forward,
though I wish
I could
stop long enough
to admire
the track, rushing,
stuck at the
start.
Light thaws in its own time.

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The voice

I heard the voice — whirling in my ears
like a breeze whistling on leaves
with the bluster of November not expecting
December to overshadow it — though
in my delirium I could not find it.

The voice — alien and incoherent as it seized
my mind without a through to the impression
it left — told me to leave (bounded
in lunacy and invisible) to
the irrational rabble wrapped in regret.

Was it mania — a psychic knot tied
to some forgotten tram unspooling and
unwelcome — or merely benign?
I am not delusional enough
to think I know the difference.

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One man’s art

The match lights.

The newspaper sparks immediately —
the flame matching the intensity
of the ink passionately spread through
a dozen stories — and dissolves into ash.

The infant flame crawls onto twigs.

I stand mesmerized by this transmutation:
words once poured over by anxious writers
now spilled into a fire as kindling, sweat
burning into memories I’ve already forgotten.

The winds shift.

I rearrange the sticks to assist their demise,
wondering how many revisions — how many 
editors’ notes — were born before the news 
fanned out to a half awake audience.

The flames leap from twigs to logs.

I stare transfixed at the graceful movement
of the blaze (so gorgeous as it spasms
on this log, then another) effortlessly 
transforming timber into trifling confetti.

I find it poetic.

My stomach screams an idea, an ephemeral epiphany
I must immediately share for art’s sake,
enthusiastically published on pulp
and eventually catalyst for another fire.

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Play in dreams

Let’s play in dreams tonight among
fanciful half-drawn adventures that
reflect reality while sharing
a majestic illusion that feels slept in.

I think I’ll fly through a world
of my own making, one great
with clocks that don’t tick but
houses often dance like jumping beans
on a record player I can’t turn off.

You’ll be there – or at least
my mental image
of you – to share an expansive world
of fantasy and sweeping lands
of rolling reveries.

Let’s get lost in dreams tonight, 
entranced by enchanted visions
extending before us while we share
this queen bed barely slept in.

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Up in the sky

The sky is clouded today with jolts
of curiosity curated with awe
by admirers looking up
with reverence, reveling though remembering
limits are a manmade conceit.

How could you not marvel at what you
don’t know, as if counting to infinity
on your fingers
is as natural as the nuclear fusion
we ignore hanging just above us.

Why aren’t you fascinated with forever?
The perplexity of perpetually trying
to perceive that which is above us,
beyond our understanding, clouds
my mind too often, obscuring the blues.

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