He thought I’d fail at the monologue. Thought I’d clam up, forget words. Thought perhaps I’d run off the stage, humiliated before even stating the first line. He forgot. That back in the day, when the two of us sang duets complete with two-part harmonies and eight extremities that kept the same rhythmic time… I was composer of both parts. Of all parts. Mine and his. And when he failed to show or was too late to even attempt to appease the crowd, first I was a little panicky. Then resentful. And finally inspired. My gift and my curse – to do the work of two with (somewhat apparent) ease. So, it was I who stopped the show. First, to make room for grace… Maybe he was just late? Then to make room for a standing ovation… In his absence. What made him think…hope I would fail at the monologue? They’re just duets between you and and an absent someone. And…well…shit…after all, practice makes perfect. Practice. Had plenty of that! One day. I pray. To be free enough to live my own definition of free. Free enough. To depend on a true duet. But for now, the grace period has come and gone. The show must go on. Mano-a-Monologue.
you must believe in it
past your sight
past your understanding
or risk not becoming
it can both reveal and blind
answer and catechize
but, The Light…
The Light does not quarrel
I swear! It’s as if John Wilkes Booth is now in The Oval… Too much of a coward to fight for the cause; believing in white supremacy, though not willing to lace up his boots or even don a white hood. He’s got a pistol in his pocket though. (And an amendment to back it up – alongside so many regrets, so many insecurities). I wonder what they do in there? In that sweaty pocket of heavy punk-assness… Do they lie next to each other and touch when they think everyone is asleep? The pistol, the regrets, the insecurities… I bet you two silver dollars that the loaded bullets of the latter two shoot further than the aforementioned. Banking on the inattention and lethargy provoked by watching ‘Our American Cousin’ in church-like pews. Clap! For an actor named Booth! After all, the shots sounded so…real!
Sing to me the song your mirror sings
Of copper tones
Flesh and bones
Of spirited, clipped wings
Of vinyl and aluminum
Can you fit your fingers in?
The two holes of the cassette tape?
The rod stem of the woodwinds?
They say a penny with a hole in it
Still plays a tune
If you dare to position your needle
On its bleeding wound
Tell me, do you prefer an audience?
Or an empty room?
Dare to tell them…at the very least
The bullet pierced right through
The music that raised us
Required human touch
Forbidden love…sweaty, gutsy lust
Yeah, sing to me that song
Like only you can
It’s your mirror after all
Your weekend. Your man.
Everyone is sharing this weekend with you
Looks like they’re sharing him too
But they can’t share the whiny croon…
…of the mirror image
That looks back at you
Only your soul
Can sing that tune
She gave away her heart like broken pieces of raw diamond in a jewelry store. He’d saved up enough over the years to buy the ultra-diamond. The diamond of all diamonds. He wasn’t looking for just a piece. He’d sacrificed long and hard for the whole thing. She watched him in anticipation as he walked throughout the jewelry store. Certain that he’d choose the bigger, prettier, unbroken diamond that glittered and shone masterfully. Wholly. She was surprised when he picked her up and paid for her outright. With the contents of his satchel…
Where he kept
All of her
you. you are a diamond. in the rough. but. a diamond. sho-nuf! some. will look at you. seeing only your brokenness. one. thee one. will know your wholeness. giving credit. to what it took. to break you. be a gem.
My eyes were closed mostly
But it didn’t matter much anyway
Some tasks do not require sight
Only that you feel
And man…did I feel
I ask, “What happens to a soul sold?”
Perhaps it opens wide
Like a galaxy from beyond our grasp
Mending great divides…
Clutching inequality fast
Does it constantly question its value?
Look for receipts…in seats
Labeled ‘white attributes…
…Only’? Does it compare itself to free?
Maybe it attaches its virtue
To cowhides and ‘Becky(s) with good hair’
Maybe it’s blissfully
dump all of that shit out of all of those bags
line those empty bags on the bed of which you sleep
on the bed that you make love on
on the bed you kneel before to pray
undo the seams
He wanted me to fit inside. Wanted to carry me everywhere he went – have my cycle sync with one who does not have one. And I really did try. You gotta believe me. I tried! One foot in; then a shoulder. A hand pushing aside one vital organ after another…to make room for the entire weight of me. I spoke softly to his heart, Continue reading Once Broken Twice Mine (and 2 heavy 2 hold)
Him: Babe. Does water thirst?
Her: Sure. Of course. Water thirsts. Everything thirsts.
Him: I don’t think so. I think that it is attracted to dry things. That it gravitates toward areas of drought. But thirst and gravitation are not the same. Only porous entities thirst.
Her: An intact vessel. Water thirsts…for holy grails with no holes. Trust me on this one.
When he speaks
My vagina spills, pours, gives
When he speaks
I never spill
Woman? The vessel?
No. You are mistaken
The woman is the living waters
Her one true holy grail