010614A
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Each has gone
to a different loss of words,
slipping into a file
and being forgotten.
The severing of a connection,
leaving spasms of contraction,
pulling back from the verge
of anything further.
Some might get to know
a future,
of billions of monkeys
given typewriters,
that record every keystroke,
to be carefully scrutinized
by armies of editors.
The search continues
for missing punctuation,
after any indication
of the last word.
Every syllable another suicide,
being carefully noted,
as it slits open
implicit meanings.
Each document notarized
with another splash of blood,
and every woman's lips
red with the same color,
in the giving and receiving
of a frenzy
of vampire kisses.
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040614A
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It touches,
leaving a mark that fades,
the way a pebble bruises
the surface,
in that stone's throw
tossed skipping
along the skin
of an outstretched sea.
It touches the waters
as if it could part them,
to something more
than its own sinking
down under the surface
mystery of the deep,
boundlessness of that sea
of eternal sorrows.
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040614B
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Remembering the failures
of letters,
taken singly or together.
Those imperfect instruments
sounding their flaws,
trying to act as hopeful keys
to doors they cannot open.
The ending note,
always more imperfect,
despite any of the struggle.
Letters more imperfect
than the always
so utterly imperfect nature
of made into flesh.
Sometimes it is all those letters
that I wish I had never written.
Particularly the love letters
that I wish I had never written.
Letters trying so hard
to say something pure and true,
that it destined their failure.
Sometimes it is the letters
that say nothing more
than saying they could never
really live in this world.
They were never the right letters,
for what was really me or you,
and so they could never be.
I remember trying to love you,
with letters,
and every time it left nothing
to really believe in.
A desecration of the alphabet,
meant for nobler things,
and sullied with regrets.
Letters worthlessly spent,
being spilt by a cruel twist
of the letter knife,
revealing various stains
on what was white and clean.
Then I buried them in thoughts
of really loving you.
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040614C
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I am unable to solve
the mystery of betrayals.
Those that are expected
that those that are suddenly
least expected.
Betrayals that contribute
to persistent statistics.
Sometimes it is as severe
as having become a detective
investigating his own murder,
finding nothing much
other than stray clues,
that can be strung together
into a kind of prayer.
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040614D
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The crowd that pulls down,
the way all crowds pull down
whatever seems to stand
for anything in their way,
is forever pulling us down
like statues in the spring.
You feel as if your soul has turned
into scattered rubble in the street,
leaflets and pamphlets
covering up the various pieces.
Spending life and time,
trying to buy the future
as if to find one that way.
All the time in between,
every now and then,
where one did not want to be.
No way back
to any instance of desire,
and always going forward,
to what never really is.
Flashes of color,
and I am losing your mind,
as it slips away
from my passing time.
Advertisements race by,
and the radio chatters,
trapped somewhere
between stations,
while all that they left of us
is other people's lies.
The recording is rewound,
edited and replayed,
processing out portions
that have become worn out.
That forces other bits together,
as if creating new meanings,
where some static is removed.
Eventually it is all static,
and all the meanings are erased,
but the loop keeps playing.
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