121818

121818

I don’t know what to tell you
except that our solitude becomes more
ornate with age.
The harmonies multiply.
The melodies bright and gentle.

I don’t know what to tell you
except that hearts don’t open to you
once you finally succumb to an equal exchange.

You came to see if I had learned
how to sever unflinching.
I only knew how to remain broken open.

You came to see if I would test
the extent of your concern for compromise.
I stretched love thin.
I extended will into apathy.

I don’t know what to tell you
except that your solitude is beautiful.
Our separateness produces its own works.
There is no one I would rather hear
beyond the boundary of heartache.
No one that I would rather hurt.

Your medium sized gilded heart
which at thirty-nine you have finally unchained.
Your sunken wet tar lungs
which patch notes and stanzas on command.
I almost hear you writing your first song
about the emptiness between us.

Of course it is my fault.

I don’t know what to say
when the world does not
open or soften to your sudden eagerness.

I came to see if you would show me
how to leave the table
once you were not being served.

I came to run my open palms along
the sleek texture of your disdain
and learn to call it justice.

I don’t know what to say
when no one gets their way.

msc

Visual Art: Lúa Ocaña

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08072018


Although it is difficult
for a type who has accepted their solitude,
so that it has become a place of solace,
to admit that parts of them can be changed
by another, they must;
and soothe themselves with the thought
that although they are porous,
and can be moved or incited,
the following chemistry can transform,
and possibly even heal,
in the company of another.

One can not always be who they are in solitude.
Ones feeling and behavior is sensitive
to the affect of those closest to them.
Pride becomes docile.
Ego is humbled.
Self dissipates.
Pieces of you evaporate as others activate.
Passions grow hotter.
Insecurities shake and whimper
as one is rearranged.

Yes, solitude is a simpler place to act virtuously from.

msc

 

Orpheo Looks Back


Were you burning for us
in between the deep warm crosscurrents
of blissful veins.
Do you remember the chords
to the song we wrote—
the song that held every sound
I longed to cast upon a crowd.
The notes are now too sweet and thick
for my throat.
There is not enough air in my lungs
to carry those wandering melodies.
I have tried to keep a pulse in the stanza.
I am spinning in the center of the shapes
your fingertips make.
I am bending with your strings,
and I am uncovering our shared dream.
If you are only a memory
than I hope that a memory
can be sturdy enough
to keep my passions.
I grow grey and vapid.
I trade the Blues for Bach.
I am translating soul into statistic.
And I am forever searching for the sound we make
in the hollows of drums and guitars,
in the cadence of mundane conversation.
When I make that sound again I will be home.
Were you burning for us
in between the deep, warm crosscurrents
of blissful veins?
Do you remember the chords to that song we made?

msc
08012018

So Many Singers

So Many Singers

So many singers.
Enough for four thousand choirs.
Was it God under their skins
that made notes emit from their bellies
bright as epiphanies?
Are we all pouring from the same endless ocean
of soul?
What is in us that makes this music?
It turns me inside out.
It moves and rocks my organs
into deep restoration,
takes me back to source.
So many singers.
So many mother songs
leading us into cosmic intimacy,
folding us into blankets of constellations.
What did I hear through the open window
of that kitchen in that second story apartment?
A medicine woman, a wise man?
Endless jazz and philosophy?
Was it a stranger understanding me?

msc

06302018

06302018

When he finds her
I hope his world stops spinning.
And every portion of taste
that she gives him satiates his wonder
for days at a time.
I hope that she is his gravity,
his physics.
I hope he cherishes every grain of sugar
she places on his tongue.
I hope that he desires nothing,
no one else.

msc

 

Image by Paolo Ceric

Woman

Woman

I have not come here to teach you.
I have not come to heal you.
I am not divinely manifested.
I am not the eternal feminine incarnated
to cosmically yin your yang.

I came here to write, explore, read
and taste.
I came here to burn and be whole
on my own.

Do not harm me and call it your
divine teaching.
I will never be the rubble you
leave behind in the wake of your
ignorance.

Woman: the stolen domestic labor
used to bolster the experiment of capitalism.
Woman: the embodiment of softness made to teach love
to men who have had compassion washed out of them.

msc

Image: Bael