Watch….Wait,..

bluemoon 

Remember the time you came from over the hillside for dancing.
Fields of lavender and poppies waving fragrant colors,
In a fitting metaphor for the way your hair fell along
Sleek, strong shoulders onto those ripe breasts.

We sat along the wall eating lemonade ice, the cold crunch
Turning your lips a bit red, and I reached to hold your hand.
All evening the big moon rose, quiet like our hearts;
Bold, like our heartbeats – rose in a shimmering ice-blue.

In small sentences you spoke about dresses and sandals.
There were many colors, all of light cotton in the summer heat.
I finally pulled you out and we danced close and slow,
Jasmine blooms filling your hair, and I cried as we parted.

Looking back, I longed to tell you how you seemed so large,
Magnificent, as the blue moon had risen and hung there,
With no more care than to watch a slow dance of lovers
Circling the sandy field, wanting so much more of life.

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2017-07-18 23.55.15In my room sits a perfectly still bunny.
She shines against the lamp’s dull glow.
Whiskers of blue never twitch, hands of
Grey ceramic fold in a prayer of silence.

The long ears seem to hold her head back,
And she stares at me through lone blue
Eye in her prayerful pious pose, she stares.

Whenever I speak to her she doesn’t nod,
No matter my tone; and my touch yields no
Shrinking, only the cold hardness of
Her smooth head, her fat cheeks, her long

Ears pointed backward in a V.
I stroke her as I speak,
“Listen Ms. Bunny, I don’t think
we can be happy. I am warm and feel

My pains, but you cannot.
You are cold and smooth and I forgot
Long ago, how to still myself in quiet
Prayer and simply hold my head high.

Look though, and I will look also.
Let us fall in love with looking only.
Let us know of our desires to be
Like one another and love instead, this ..
wish.

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Flicker

Cigarette     

Some days the light goes out in the hall,
Flickering like cigarettes shared on
Windy nights out by the lake.

Awkwardly I had figured out you were
Losing faith as I chained smoked my nerves
Into a nicotine daze, waiting for the end.

I rise two steps towards the upper corner,
Unsteadily waffling on a two-step, step ladder,
Given to me by my dad before he turned yellow

And died. The bulb burns, a yellow sizzle.
How one forgets a lit bulb is acutely hot
I don’t know, but I remember now why I

Put up with the flicker for so long,
Sighing a sigh each time as though
The act of changing is really just too much.

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Whisky

Touch     To be touched is to be loved.
Underneath the skin lies our
Loudest voice, tingling tepidly
With the hot anticipation of fingers.

What replaces our touch of our touch,
But the warm and gentle touch of
The one who lays against our body
And coos softly the names of evils,

Low in the darkness, hands roam my
Body in touch, but not in love,
Scraping roughly along in something
Feeling like punishment.

Touch was suddenly the rush of hot
Wind on my face, the soulful smell
Of corn liquor, the heavy weight
Normally left to Sunday preaching

To squeeze us in this failed way.
But touch now had its own sermon
On the wrath of God and the impurity
Of thinking about love. Don’t touch.

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I knew Elvis

Elvis    I knew Elvis.
Six feet tall and gangly.
Didn’t play very well.
Shy. Slow learner.

Kind as the day was long.
Hot summer heat of Memphis
Literally melts the asphalt.
Thick black hair. Sunk eyes.

Southern.
What is the meaning, anyway.
Southern?
He knew. We all knew.

Imagine him going by
Aaron (Aron).
It fit much better.
But Elvis is the one who died.

I guess I should say,
I knew Aron. Southern.
To the core.
Hound dog and all.

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Late at night on the train

Train windowHard rain falling, black night rolls by under the thunder,
Old woman nodded off two stations ago, stupid little dog,
Tucked under her coat and newspaper for covers, she snores,
While we sit staring into hard rains falling in the black

Night express to Stanford; local from there; stop after stop.
Shit.
All the way to Groton she stared, and I wanting to sleep
Stared out, electric blue bolts in the sheets and then black.

I felt close to some kind of God, some kind of Deity
Which could create sublime sound in the female flesh
Gyrating a resonant rhythm, lifting with sex and
Waking our pitiful male members in the process.

There was no bar car, the train rolling, heavily,
Pouring rain, down pouring, heavy curtains filling
Passing streets, rushing torrents running, running,
Rushing down to everywhere, like us, like this love.

At last the old woman falls over and dog with her.
You look at me and laugh, reaching for my hand.
Pressing your nose to the dark window as light
Trickles on the horizon in preview to dawn.

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Finding Breath

Finding breath

The guttural wails peaked at two,
Cramped hand aches from holding
Hers, head throbbing and she
Shuddered, quivering against the wall.

At two a.m. I wanted Antwerp
And cigarettes in the rain.
But the pain of her labor
Matted in her hair, wet now.

I wished for ‘going in moans’, but
Hear the ‘coming out’ ones.
I long for carnal sweat,
But get perspiring in a careful plan.

Warm cherry turnovers oozed
With steamy red filling,
A sweet hangover cure,
From young nights wild and free.

Loud wail and then….
This squirming, flailing mass
Blood and mucus, plops forth
And at once, I am transfixed.

She wails once more,
Wanting it to wail also.

Silence.

I cannot turn away.
Cry, damn you.

Breath.

And then ..
Tiny feet and miniature hands,

Kick and swing at life.
One angry, tiny scream thrusts
Upward.

I squeeze her hand again.
Hard. It hurts.

She cries. I laugh.
Just for old times.

Bruce Lindley

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