…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,
games,
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
yet
the one thing he seeks and shall ever find—
is the thing he puts aside.
A composite of me and the universe 