Mr. Moore

Kip Moore sounds like a cross between Bon Jovi and Billy Joel.
The roughness of age and experience combined with enduring soul.

A body made from parts and sounds and feeling and soft tones moves me.
The guitar played in a bedroom with wood paneled walls and full length mirror on the closet door.
Flannel bedding to hold and to warm, and the base of the drum. It’s releases me.

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It’s in these spaces that love becomes eternal and the burden of sorrow is shared.
It’s in these words and phrases that we are one and experiences are validated.
There are those that stare at walls and then those thoughts are allied.
It’s in these moments that we question and reaffirm our being and why.

Poetry at Night

My laptop sleeps with me at night.
Eventually under my covers.
The warmth from the battery pack keeps me warm
No need for arms to hold me tight.

You will be Found out by Someone, One Day

Give me credit,
that’s all I ask for.
Give me for which that I deserve.
I worked hard.

I am not Einstein or Freda,
I did not cure diseases.
But I earned those ideas.

You stole from me that which I pined for.
angst for.
It’s not hard to take,
copy and replicate.

I never want to come up with anything ever again.
You’re not forgiven.

Raw

It's incredibly hypocritical.

At least I think it is,

That I want nothing to do with you.

But you bring me heartache,

and stress, and pain.

Not because you love me THAT much,

it's because you don't.

Or you do, but I can't see it.

It hurts, the ones I am closest to try.

I look to forgive.

I look to the grey area to find some forgiveness.

But the hurt doesn't go away.

I can imagine that's how he feels.

But it's different.

I want to talk to you.

I want to know you. again.

I want to text, to write, to email.

But I can't.

Because I know better.

Please know better.

Little Frustrations

My computer isn't working,

exactly how it should.

Though I have all day.

Contact

I wanted to call you and tell you about how well I did yesterday.

How well I'm doing now.

And I want to dial your number.

Or accidently use the speed dial on my cell phone.

But then I would have nothing to say.

I would know that I shouldn't be calling.

That there is so much context you would be missing.

A whole life here that you wouldn't understand.

I could send you a letter with everything that I have wanted to say.

But that would be selfish.

And not utimately satifying.

Sending my letter into some vague oblivion.

Attention? or maybe true love.

All he knows is that he's heard it before.

And although she is not as good, or interesting, or match.

he is happy.

Waiting is life's torture.

Because waiting never really means anything. Sometimes.

I wait for something to happen. If it happens.

It will happen or not happen.

But we all wait anyway.

We all sit and hope and waste away.

I'm always wasted.

Andres

There are moments

that exist through the bad

in the bad

those, they change everything now

calling doesn't show you the things that have changed

weeping doesn't tell you the story of what is unknown to you

I can't make you look

or see

or understand

or take in

I can't force you to turn your head so you can feel the things I want you to see

But I can wait.

Tanzania

I could go back if i wanted to. it will be the same.

or vastly different.

another shoprite or walmart to color the vast expanses.

or not.

But I wonder.

I want to take him there.

He will know me then.

there.

He and I will be. there. together.

not alone, but finally together.

Mama Timas will make me my favorite skirt.

I need a new one.

A bright Kanga.

Made for me.

with her hands.

Chapati from the Kiswahili building.

Nothing tastes better.

Mangos.

the smell of dala dala rides.

Everydon't

I am falling through the cracks.

I am one of those people who will die,

and most of the people around me would have no idea why.

Or maybe everyone does see how tortured I am.

I guess one day we will see.

Short of people dying, my life is pretty damn bad.

But I don't tempt the gods for more punishment.

_

Spring

Soil wet for six months

cold and rotten like before

things will never change

Pebbles

Rock on her gravestone

small pebbles make a pattern

were meant to be there

My New Job

New and fresh and limitless

roadblocked and drowned by others

trapped in ugliness and stagnancy.

Change only occurs in the rare moment of shown exhaustion 

and apathy. 

It circles and circles and the fresh flowers begin wilt and 

sit out the fight. 

The sun, I see it, but am no longer touched. 

The moments of heat and warmth now escape me.

It travels with me.

Burden of the toll until it too takes me away.

Chicago

Words remain unfocused
coming together only with the weakest of bonds.
Chicago, I miss you.
I miss you and your smell and your laughter and your summer nights.
Nights with city born lightening bugs in a mason jar and the ice-cream truck on our block.
It was watching grease, and staying up, and MASH games, and silly self tanner.
It was the never settling sun and twilight play in our tree.
Decorating our bicycles with streamers for the block party.
Raspberries to pick, and baby backyard pools to fill.
Chicago, I miss when my words came together
and when just for a moment I had the world in my hands.

Where Poetry Lives

Time spent in the company of soft pillows and Thailand born blankets.

A tapestry of orange and blues and sea foam greens.

Dark wood and four posted bed.

Purple pokey bed pillows along for the ride.

Ventricle

I am only what I can make with my hands,
That which is created in my head can be made.
The very notion of feeling, unreal, other worldly
remain in abstraction.
Valued resource if only able to cultivate into the realness that is our existence.
The spoken word of the heart is all that which I can tangibly speak.
Though the level at which it is tangible has yet to be made clear.
It is the sounds of my soul that drive every moment of the being of which I call my own.
Translation into the norm has unintended consequences.
It speaks, though it speaks with out the right ear to hear.

Floating Above the Mind

I am a person devoid of reckless adherence to the rules.
there is jumping, and then there is leaping.
I’m a leaper.

There are shadows meant to follow us.
There are words meant not to be spoken, but to be yelled.
There is silence in the most beautiful moments of a lifetime,
and anger left lingering before bedtime.

We connect through our insides, and our outsides.
Just one big diffused noise echoing into the corners of existence.

There is loved to be shared, and taken, and held, and forgotten.
I am in love with hating myself.