Listen to be heard

a bloom and a frost where we came to do no more and no less than find beauty

lvemtel:

For those of you who haven’t gotten your hands on a copy yet, here’s a little taste of what’s under the covers and between the sheets.

To the ajumma of 4:30am

With your pressed
Face upon the glass
          In stores convenient,

And the flowers
Red-yellow of your shirt
           Wilting in your heart,

Walk me to your home
Show me picture books faded
          And loves found fragile


Like bottles
And broken

Your apologies
To lives less caring 
          Muddles curses spat,

Heads shake, eyes turn,
Smell liquor on your breath
          And leaves wounds flamed.

Hope clinging
Pleading seen eyes
       To hear a heard mouth. 

Come here, ajumma.
There is someone to talk to.
Don’t mind their hurried glances.
They are all becoming you.      

“The spring breeze melted snow on the hills then quickly disappeared.
I wish I could borrow it briefly to blow over my hair
And melt away the aging frost forming now about my ears.”

—   U Tak

“Yea, verily he will return: ask him not what he seeketh in the depths; for he himself will tell you, this apparent Trophonius and subterrestrial, whensoever he once again becomes a man”

—    Friedrich Nietzsche in the Preface to The Dawn of Day

Bodypillows

We caught the noon bus,

Placing armrests between us.

A tidal week left thin,

With a hurried hollow weekend.

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“Bloom! I beg of a dead flower: bloom! bloom!”

—   Yale Y. Clern from Cobbled Hearts and Storefronts

Guest

Carved wood grains, an imitation

Slopes sliding slowly towards a navel

Phosphorescent wanderings, suddenly, lonely

(In a heart) this old blue collar cable.

And in it twists to call and flower and

Spin bright limericks from these lips.

And beat and bounce and calm a heart

Now outpouring, 

Out by ladles.