Thursday, June 23, 2011


Suffering does not always give off

airs of being painful.

The body has

tools for masking that which it

houses within.

Can carry

sorrow deep in belly

like womb swollen big

without benefit of children,

strong in back, though aching,

sore in feet, yet standing;

a cloak to belie the dust of

aches settled upon

ribs and hip bones.

Horrific truths exposed only

when ripped from deep interiors

like aborted fetus discarded


tossed aside remembrances

hurled into heaps like laundry,

well worn and dirty;

hidden between lines in palms,

between stanzas of poetry.

Heard uttered from trembling

lips into mics, whispered

to audience as though

they might have the ability

to cure those who spit rhymes

for the purpose of therapy,

searching out eyes in

darkness, coyly seeking

out a returned gaze which

offers back understanding

and the possibility of

one night of connection/

temporary release of the

frustration of silence,

so hands grip mic tight

imagining soon it will be fingers

upon eager thighs

absorbing the shock

of depth, of hurt explored,

between shots and groans

which stifle the moaning of

a temple in turmoil,

betraying the foul taste

of loss upon bitten tongue

held captive by the one

who only lets self come

undone on paper,

on screen, but never

gives self a reprieve

from the constant


it never is able

to escape from.

Sink down like sand,

fall in like ground,

cave further away

from the sound of

your voice, from the wrong

of your choices.

No followed through

promises of calls

once you've gone, just

moving on from city to state,

from the hate you'll leave

behind between the sheets

of a bed which held in it

a fugitive of truth, a survivor

of lies.

And the hallow eyes

of a woman who for one night

tried to soothe

that which

ailed you, but knew not that

deep within you was a pain

she could not reach

and though she was touched

by the words in your poetry,

you never once felt it.

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