To Impress The Sun

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Everything has been done before.
Life, love, sex, depression, death,
Anger, reflection,
Knowledge, wisdom, and understanding.
The Sun has seen it all and heard enough stories.
I couldn’t surprise Him if I boasted I could grab the moon and place it anywhere I pleased.

I have the audacity to believe I can impress Him–
That I can gain the approval of someone I cannot look in the eye.
In search of a way to boldly go to someone who can humble me anytime He sees fit,
Especially when I know I deserve it
The notion, in itself, is arrogant and daunting.

Maybe I’ll narrate during the evening
When He calls it a night.
So I can concentrate without being under His thumb.
He is always over my shoulder.
He calls it guidance
I try to embrace that definition.
But agitation arises like noon
Casting the longest shadow of inadequacy.

I want to sway a being that has planets following Him like small children.
Whose reach is measured in time.
And despite my confusion, I believe I can
Because He gave me the ability.

So when my story is complete
When the denouement is finished.
I will give it to the Sun to read.
I am sure He will add it to His prized collection.



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I float to place my head among clouds,
Getting as good a perspective I can.
An aerial view of the fork in the road
With identical causeways stretching to the unknown.
No way to tell if left is right
Or right is wrong
Or if they both lead to a roundabout.
I must choose,
For my wings have begun to grow weary.

I, arms open
Nearing the end, fatigued
Ready to catch some z’s
Realize that as long as I vow to constantly follow my instinctive trail of thought
The answer will always, at least, sound right.


Tailor Made

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Brushed wool
Lotioned silk
Soft, not fragile
Though cherished as such.

Cotton plants the seams along the back.
Set out on its spine for the world to watch blow in the wind.
Receiving cloth where hips would lie
To protect soon-to-be seeds from breezes stained with despair
Trying its best to keep loosened innocence in tact for as long as it can.

Buttoned-down satin
One can look, though should not invest if its care is unaffordable.
Surely not a clearance item.
Rather, the most accessible exclusive catalog from God
On display in windows wherever desire shops.

Worn by lively mannequins
Then tossed like a rag doll enduring undeserved abuse
Used as a child’s plaything
An adult’s misplaced naivete
Ignored until needed for extra emotional security
Serenity woven in the front of the collar.

Its pierced soul passes through eyes.
Needled and knitted to make sure it fits the kings for which created
Royal garment treated as hand-me-downs
Mishandled attempts to wash the eminence until it fades.
The color runs too deeply.
No matter how much it bleeds, it remains in mint condition.

Fabric valued with life itself.
Molecular structure is threaded with the beginning of life itself.
Made of 100% indestructible fibers.
Rip- and shrink-proof,
With elasticity to support the weight of those who adorn
And scorn
But the value never depreciates.

The Favorite.
Goodwill never to be traded in.
More than a collection of linen.
The tailor’s measurements are exact
With no alteration necessary.
And it still fits perfectly through growth.


You Rock

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You rock.
Out loud.
And I still haven’t figured out how you do it
But you do.

Soulful tone like Nina Simone and I’m a sinner man.
Where else would I run
But to see you up on stage?
The birds flying high don’t know how i feel.
They look up to see me
Watching you put on a show
Moving crowds of admirers but singing directly to me,
A humble audience of one.
So undeserving of this front row ticket that
I would give it back.
But I need your concert live in my eardrums.
To listen to…

You rock.
Back and forth.
So relaxing whenever I’m in your arms.
Wisdom in your mahogany finish.
Sturdy, yet forgiving.
As polished as the You your Maker had envisioned.
Strong enough to support me when I need it
The cushion for my falls when long days have me weary.
Even when you provide respite,
You swing my momentum when it’s time to stand.
And demand that I get to my feet.
I just love that I get to feel…

You rock.
The noun.
Yes, the noun.
And as corny as that sounds,
I’m proud to use that weak metaphor.
Sometimes the simple and easy is necessary when you’re bolder than my inner confidence
Solid, sturdy, and supportive.
Excuse me for being cheesy
But this is the only time I’ll ever take you as granted….
Praising a stone of your magnitude would be idol worship
If the divinity in you was not so naturally scaled.
You gorgeous Kilimanjaro, you.
I climb your foundation to reach the apex of your beliefs.
Willing to brave the adventure to plant relief at the peak of your peace.
The journey to the summit is worth the prize.
I want to get to the top to observe the world from our high.
To see the skies from close-up and look at…

You, rock
You queenly cut gem
Shine on, you crazy diamond
I wish you were here.
Arms around my neck
Your little piece of treasure on my chest
Heart to heart.
Jewel to jewel
Show you off way more than rappers do
Because I actually have you.
You belong to me.
So I look at you in my reflection
And admire…

You rock.
I haven’t quite figured out how
But you do.


Loneliness When Writing (Freewrite)

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(Editor’s Note: Inspired by a discussion on Twitter, I decided to ask myself a question and write down whatever thoughts came to me. Totally unedited, save for syntax.)

Do I feel lonely when I write?

Well, I guess I would have to first answer why I initially began writing.


Therapy seems like such a cliche answer.
I can’t remember too many times where writing made me feel “better.”
No mood lifted.
I think.
But there are other forms of therapy, right?
I do write so the inspired voices in my head will temporarily leave me be.
But are they bothering me?
Does that imply that inspiration is a nuisance?

No. It can’t be. Without inspiration, my life would be useless.
Or driven by someone else’s whims.

But do I feel lonely while writing?
I do feel alone. That’s certainly not the same.
Is that willful solitude?
Is that bad?
We all need time to ourselves.
But writing does make me feel vulnerable
And sometimes, we need another source of energy to help us cope.
Is that the purpose of my muse?

All these rhetorical questions
And not one real answer.
Maybe answering wasn’t the goal.
Perhaps just being brave enough to question myself is the aim.


Such a simple question that I have done mental circles around.
“Answering” it and other tangential inquiries.
That may or may not pertain to how I see writing.
Again, that all feels cliche.

I mean, I definitely wouldn’t write if I didn’t feel I was good at it.
Honestly, I wouldn’t write if I didn’t think others would think I was good at it.
Acceptance is real, even in therapeutic exercises.

I guess that’s how some cope with loneliness.
I just pick up the pen…




On a gorgeous, final afternoon of this work week’s end.
She took a bite from a freshly picked strawberry, then
On the time when we made our own course after dessert

More than just an appetizer and entree
Never had she had the experience of her body as a plate
Garnish her frame with produce then stimulate her to produce…
Smoothies made from passion fruit.
Scooping strawberry bits from one set of lips to share with another…
Mouth to mouth…to mouth…
Resuscitating arousal. In her breaths, I hear delight.
Add her cream, our chocolate, and my banana below her waist,
And I believe we’ve created Sundaes between thighs

Devouring everything that leaves her flesh bare
Fingers inside, motioning for her to come here.
Pointing to her spot and symbolizing how I’ll make her come here
Licking the excess amounts of sauce that she shared.

Kissing to catch her escaping passion in her exhales.
Stroke realities into fantasies.
Wet dreams are memories of her happening.
I make it so than when she’s alone
And wants to recreate those moans
She comes oh so close because she’s missing the main ingredient in her bowl.

Eating strawberries is no longer just a simple treat
It’s a pleasant recollection of a fond memory
A moment in which real sparks the imaginary
She plans on revisiting her Sunday dreams.


Check And Mate

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Editor’s Note: This poem isn’t actually a poem. With the help of Veranduh-Maureen, we just had a rhymed conversation over a game of chess. This is 100% unedited. And the back-and-forth thoughts flowed damn near effortlessly. It’s long, but I hope you get something from it. It starts with Vee moving first and the conversation switches with each double space. Hope you enjoy.

If I moved my pawn up two spaces smiled at you and sat back, tell me, what would you do? How would you begin to combat that?

If I were to antagonize, I’d match
But I usually move the king’s knight
Two spaces up and one to the right.

I might see your knight but advance with my pawn anyway.

Bold. I like it. Is that a symbol of my adversary’s mind state?

Could be, but I believe you have a move to make.

Heh. I do, don’t I?
While we’re enjoying this game, and I advance my front pawn one space.
This is a meeting of the mental, and I wanna find out what yours is like

I thought that had been obvious. Childlike. Imaginary. Dark.

Yes. And that’s a start.
But this won’t be quick
Unless your wit’s not as sharp as I think…

Well then, allow me to ease those thoughts as I sink your knight the way I just did.
In your concern with me my pawn was stealthily advancing.

You think so? (Sidenote: this is fucking amazing)

I think so? No, I know so.
And fucking amazing is all I know so
What you give is what you get.
I know my next move but I wonder if you can guess.

Guessing isn’t the best strategy.
So I don’t have to.
If one is crafty, as I am, then he notices that effort to sidetrack me.
We’re third eye to eye
Victory over your mind is my goal
As far as your fucking being amazing, well, I don’t know, so…
Let’s just say I have plans for your queen’s castle.

Touché. I’m temporarily stunned and I don’t know what to say so I’ll move.
Did you just castle my queen?

Heh. No. At least not the one on the board, I mean..
You’re the kind of opponent with the mind and focus I need.
Maybe we can be opponents for awhile
Because I’m enamored with your thoughts, and with your permission, further I’d definitely like to proceed

Though first, allow me to rather forcefully smack another one of your pieces off the board.
I’ve made my move, the turn is yours.

My moves–this game–have been about more than pieces on black and white squares
It was about seeing your brain in action and being allowed inside there
I’m losing my soldiers but gaining knowledge
Sometimes drawing an opponent in is the only way to capture her
Now your pawn in front your king? My bishop’s now there.

So I see. But your soldiers, don’t consider them lost.
Those were barriers that with time and comfort were willingly tossed.
The cost for understanding was paid with attention.
You got to advance only as much as you were let in, and that was a lot.
A lot considering you have yet to hear the seasoned rasp of my voice.
I’ve taken your bishop with my king. I had no other choice.
Another barrier down.

Damn. Looks like the tables have turned.
But whomever wins is a victory well-earned
Your king moved so it has nowhere to run
Which is fitting because neither do you…my queen puts you in check this turn.

It’s not running if I’m moving and you follow.
I could be wrong but it seems to be the model of goal in pursuit.
I make my move and then you instinctively maneuver.
Correct me if I’m wrong but you claimed to be smoother than what now?
::sits and looks at king with a slight frown::

Ha! Smoother than a panther’s stride
But you know that right
Hmmm. So this is what happens intellectual planets collide?
An adversary so similar it’s eerie how so
But you’re a different type of foe. One I’d like to get to know
I’ll surrender this round. But can we keep playing for the rest of our lives?

Playtime, always. Besides I’m sure there are more ways to get you belly up.

Certainly. But that’s another game, isn’t it, love?


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