Monday, October 09, 2006

recently rejected for publication

a discretionary epistle

a recovering anxiety addict;
released with only a few new
found sense and a pen in my pocket,
sloughing off the desire to use my sword for stabbing.

to you, a massive missive, with a turn-cheek and squint-eye:

i don’t want to presume
you will attack me, darlin',
but sometimes without my trusty rusty
piercing-blade, and in the midst of my withdrawal,
i slip slide back,
try to employ my shield, and
to a taut-muscle-sweaty-brow defensive stance -
in that, i see you as a noxious cloud
joined with the dense fog of foul strangers that betray,
with white-noisy betrayers bubbling in my head.

and, with them,
i could swear it, that
you will strike me,
and wound me,
and then disown me.
i hold up my flimsy shield,
try to ward off the thick mimetic,
lost in recovery,
and waiting, raw and addicted and with paper-thin protection , to stand your lash:
"Come On. Hit Me. I Deserve It."

quietly, to me from you, a mnemonic memo glides, across my guarded advance:

in smooth rhythm and soothing rhyme
you bassa danza with my newfound form,
whisper 'flagellation isn't all that sexy anymore,'

my breastplate clanking to the floor
drifting me, uncovered and breathless,
crosswise and upsidedown,
our gorgeous gangly arms akimbo in kind,
lapping the uncanny-sweet-lemon-drop dripping off your tongue.

then, despite and to honor
these under-armor-skin and bones,
tingly wakening from slumber,
tender and brittle
from lack of light and loving touch -
discovered, I present myself, tenderhearted, to you -

a sheepish wide-open knight,
a dis-devotee of defense and disrobed of pre-emptive chain-mail,
strong without all that metal,
I adore the passion of our vulnerable dance.


thus endeth the mope.


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