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Tea party

I’m so very tired,
of what I see on TV:
the Adonis, the Adona
prominently displayed.

I do not mean to say
that they are not praiseworthy,
but where are the people
who look like me?

Where are the crows feet,
and the other battle scars of aging?
Where are the acne scars,
and the stretch marks?

Where are the five-o’clock shadows
and the two-day stubble?
Where are the casual clothes –
because fuck this suit and tie.

Instead we are presented with
perfection, waxed and polished,
practiced in the mirror,
and previously recorded
so it could be whitewashed.

Instead they display a still life,
desperately clinging onto life.
But life is movement and change,
and I watch them as I walk by,
smiling at me with the dull eyes of dolls.

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Exhibit

They call me “naked”,
but that is not true.
At best, they see me nude.

All that they can see of my body,
the scars and stretch marks,
no more define me
than would my shadow.

To see me naked
is to look beneath my skin
at the raw, emotional heart
beneath the still facade.

And for all the efforts to strip me down
and set me on display,
they will only ever see a body –
they will never find the real me.

Because I am a party
that is invitation-only,
and it’s hard to earn a ticket
to the symphony of my soul.

So call me what you will,
but know I’ll judge your words,
and if you dig this deep and call me “naked”,
then I think you’re being shallow.

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Copycat

I fear that tomorrow may never come,
the stagnation and eventually entropy of the present,
and while I am aware that nothing lasts forever,
that does not guarantee change.

And even a guarantee of change
is not a promise of positivity,
for the future is like Schrodinger’s Christmas present:
we do not know it until it is unveiled.

To me, the waiting is the worst,
casting my eyes at the calendar
and asking in earnest every – single – day –
if tomorrow will be just like today.

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The Night

The night passes
like a cheap whiskey:
it burns me.

It calms me
like a hot shower,
like a sweet dream.

It excites me
like an evening gown,
like a flash of skin.

It frightens me
like a coming storm,
like a night without stars.

It saves me
like a fierce embrace,
like unconditional love.

Like a long draw on a cigarette,
the night passes through me,
and I taste the fire.

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I am here

Water flowing over stone;
the wind carries the night;
only fire and dawn are absent,
but now I am here.

Couples curl together in alcoves;
others seduce novels and schoolwork;
no one stands alone,
but now I am here.

The water sings;
the people speak;
silence is unheard of,
but now I am here.

Through the sun and the heat,
through traffic and congestion,
I have traveled long,
and now I am here.

Now, I am here.

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Festival

Woodwinds pipe proudly,
like playful skipping stones,
while dancers flow like water,
and their feet take flight.

Food trucks circle the celebration,
and send out sizzling invitations,
but their cooking fires can’t compare
to the passion of the people there.

Even after the vendors have all departed,
the temperature keeps climbing higher,
the heat of the moment waxing full
with the evening moon.

As the festivities come to a head,
the energy crests like a breaking wave,
and the feverish bacchanals
greet the dawn with rosy cheeks.

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