Apostasy

You are the place
where my faith dies.
You are that
unforeseen bend on the road
the edge of the cliff
the end of the world
after a fast and reckless drive
with the top down
on the yellow Corvette
of my passionate impetuousness
with the top down
the ominous winds
of uninhibited audacity
raking the scalp of my heart.
I crashed into you
I fell into you
and my heart died at impact
there’s no reviving it
not in a thousand days
even with a million shots
of romance
administered by such nurses
as Casanova
or Don Juan.

Here lies my heart
that loved too much
for the last time.
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untitled photo from image bookmarking site WeHeartIt

I Just Want To Be With You

I just wanna be with you.
This thought just
leapt up and out
of the immediate tangibleness
of copyright documents
and stock market bond certificates
and gold-leaf five-digit cheques
peering with squinted eyes
at me
over fresh caviar
steaming smoked Greek sea bass
and a plate of tartufo mushrooms
worth their weight in gold.
I just want to be with you.
Give me your dreams
and your adolescent simplicity.
I want to be there
when you bring your daughter
to the beach
to see the ocean
for the first time.
I want to eat the dinner
you know how to cook
and fall asleep next to you
wearing a night shirt
you’ve seen on me
a million times.

In the “real world”,
that is,
outside the classroom
that had once been home
to both
my profession
and my education
there are no wise arms
to take refuge in
that can tell you
for certain
you did the right thing
because we live in a society
where the end
justifies the means
and history
is the only thing
that can absolve your sins
but you may very well
be dead
by the time
your choices make sense

and I
will not take that chance.
Do you hear me?
I refuse to.
But the fog is up to my eyes.
This could be the path
that finally lets me
dig my tunnel
towards you
but I won’t really see
until I dig it.
And if you’re not there
the light at the end
it would be too late
to try again.
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“Luisa de Freitas” from Creative Smiles Photography

T-Mo

Your poetry is my weakness
my guilty indulgence
my secret shame
like closet alcoholism
I lock myself in my room
and with the glow
of a chiffon-shaded lamp
I run my fingers
along your lines
ever so slowly
allowing the
glass-winged insects
of your genius
take on the form
of leaping flames
inside my spine
I close my eyes
and breathe the musk
of your rich soul
emanating from the pages
and let your
synthesized presence
unlock my
long dry spell
of literary silence

I pushed
all of other artists’
brainchildren
away
just to concentrate
on you
so that I could stand
in the center of
verbal expression
in its finest form
and figure out
again
why I write

it’s because words
are the language
of your love
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Photo first found via Google Images.
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If this image belongs to you, please let me know.

A Man Who Believes In Love

He’s 43 years old and still believes
that love is the greatest force on earth
he’s gone through a turbulent divorce
and still thinks loving a woman
is the one greatest deed he could ever do
believes it in the core of his being
so much that he sings it in his sleep
believes in it whether or not his poetry sells
believes in it more than a man with an empty stomach
holds on to the fierce reality of a loaf of bread in his hands
believes it the way he believes
that the Christ walked on water
and Moses parted the Red Sea
believes in it as if the salvation of his sinner’s soul
hangs above the precipice
on the thread of that four-letter word
and as if the foundations of goodness
are unshaken only
because the marrow of truth and justice
is forged in blood and gold

He’s the man I’ve chosen to believe in
he’s the man I’d rather
be the father of my children
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Ethereal Engagement, Lake Erie
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from Purple Tree Wedding Photography

The Second Time Around

Time unwinds the gritty layers of bad dreams
and spoiled expectations coiled around our hearts
and hopefully you also see what I see:
the throbbing seed of a second chance
the pulsating nucleus of a new and still untainted promise
that maintains its resilience despite our many cycles of hurt

I can see in your eyes you’re willing to try again
but your words are uncertain
and there’s a new roundabout way in your feet
whenever you approach me these days
but beyond the many conversation pieces
we’ve locked away and mutely agreed to forget
a square of sunlight falls on this brand-new noontime
ensnaring us in its possibilities of delight
and we simultaneously have taken our blindfolds off
and decided to see that we have more things in common
than we uncovered on our first exploration an epoch ago
no, the story is not finished
here’s Chapter Two

It won’t be as easy as before
I won’t fall into your arms
we won’t fall into your bed
and conveniently blame it on such abstract culprits
as chemistry or gravity
but I’m familiar to you and you’re familiar to me
we have each an end of the ball of yarn and
are breaking down the walls of this world’s labyrinth of rules
for another time around
towards each other, slowly but surely
and everybody says it will be sweeter
.

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Still from the movie High School Musical: Senior Year

Collaboration of a Lifetime

I’ve been asked
a few times
I always said no
but I’m asking you
can you be the Kenny Lattimore
to my Chanté Moore
and do the
collaboration of a lifetime
it would only be
so natural
because every single line
that you write
makes my body respond
not to mention my mind
and even my right hand
is not fast enough

can I please be
the other half of your poetry?
can you tattoo
my thoughts
onto the unbroken flesh
of your flow
and can our pens
make love
to conceive
and give birth
to wunderkinds
so pure and strong and real
they change the world?
can our fingers
split parallel universes
on paper
so that between the two of us
the reading world will have
nothing left to ask?

It burns, baby
this need to be a poet
and only your love
can make me so
.

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“Tango” by photographer Salvador Sabater

Mr. Love Poet

Your books of poetry
traveled 14 hours by air
just to get to me
I had a mind to
line them on my shelf
among GabĂ´ and Neruda
even Shakespeare
and turn you into
an ideal
a reading material
a testament to greatness
instead of a
flesh-and-blood man

but I underestimated
your capacity
to break my heart
across the distance
and to carefully
sew it back up
all in the span
of one reading

yours is a subject
that never gets tired
a garden that
stays green and in bloom
no matter how many feet
have walked on it

so I sit here
on this granite-topped table
a box of dark chocolate
by my elbow
and from dusk till dawn
my fingers are intimate
with your words
and I feel you
ever so close

so close

you could very well be
whispering in my ear
you hands could very well be
rubbing my back
that has been oiled
by your verses
you’re more real to me now
than you’ve ever been

you make love
you make love pure again
and poetry its vessel
you make the soil
of my passion
fertile again
and I thank you
for blessing me,
Mr. Love Poet
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