To a particular man I know little

…and in the corner I found him silent

head low, slouched, exhausted

a lot of things can be said about him

yet he was silent like a fetus in a woman’s womb

he is a man—

a man without a story

in a book left in my closet–

such a mystery filled only with

dots and dashes

But who’s to say–

from all the rumors

his heart is lost—

Lost to a tribe of the inner persona;

familiar to none.

But he loves and does love hard;

a beauty concealed by a mechanism

he called defense.

‘they’ say we need more than just thoroughfares

his body can try to be out going but truly, a contrast of what’s inside his soul.

But I have his name

his number,

his poems,

his faces,


often I get brain freeze–

how interesting I only have these; little to nothing at all–

and I call him unpredictable.

His wind storms, it’s never calm

it cuts off trees and breaks glass windows

cos pain leaves him an element of blank_________.

Oh yes he does love and love so hard

or rather before his mind denies his heart.

His heart

is a silk woven myriads of wonderful stories

his eyes are the kindest behind all his frozen secrets

He is a fine man with such wildness in his bones

so beautiful, beautiful only if it is known.

To a particular man I know little

His hand is warm.

his aura a demon, people run for the hills–

He is a factory of oddity,

his heart a mayonnaise of unspoken words at the mere touch of cold philosophy—

To which, I often err his sadness for coldness and I clip his Angel wings.

rural to urban, 

to a painter’s house or just beach bumming

his lips are dyed of the colors of the landscape

..and his mind in awe of eccentricity

His life a fold of folded folds

searching for a space to rest as his home

women are illusions; children are provisions

he searches the nooks and the alleys oh but,

steps back not to see something

such a hassel-free, if only–

to find whom he intends to be


the one thing he seeks and shall ever find—

is the thing he puts aside.

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