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 Jan 2014
JLB
It’s been a while since I’ve taken a drive through my mind.
I drove when I needed to search for understanding, and then came a time when I no longer yearned to understand.
Objects in mirrors were closer than they appeared. And suddenly…
Life was closer than it appeared whenever it was netted in the echo of a poem.


It began to snow, and the flakes under my headlights turned to shooting stars.
I was so close. So close to…something. I could see the faint outline of a figure…a man perhaps?
Time froze, or maybe it sped up? I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t perceive what was, and what wasn’t.
Then suddenly, he was there—
A man in a dark cloak, standing in the middle of the road, reaching out to me.  
I put on my breaks, and the car came to a sudden halt.
He circled around the car, approaching my window. I could not see his face.
I rolled down the window, and he came forward and motioned for my hand, holding out his gloved one.
I gave it to him.
He held it.
I suddenly wanted to die.
I said, “Can you make the suffering stop?”
He inhaled, as if to speak, and then…
I felt adrenaline and fear surge in my veins. I inhaled to ask him who he was, but there was no air. I was full of nothing.
I did not want to hear what he had to say.
My heart palpitated. My vision went black.  I opened the car door, and flung myself out onto the snowy ground.
The man was gone.
I didn’t want to drive anymore, so I locked the car, left it in the middle of the road, and walked into the blizzard. I didn’t know which way home was, and I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to know anything.

Life meets human understanding in the most delicate way, when one finds words to echo reality.
After the pen has scribbled something profound, understanding meets fear in the most unfortunate way.  All that once was, crumbles under epiphany.  
What is already known is comfortable. It doesn’t require bravery, for we have already faced it. We have already heard the words spoken from under the cloak, and we already have seen the face of their messenger.
 Jan 2014
Seán Mac Falls
My story ends of sparkle,
Hands, winding me in fable
The dark lines of her lashing eyes
Are burning rings, shear ice,
Covering the lost ponds of spring,
To see her in the ripening fields
Is to know the myriad colours
Of flowers, wild with loneliness,
She is always numbering the days,
Always on parade, hair, with out end,
Tresses trailing the wind.
 Jan 2014
Seán Mac Falls
My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies
Elation, we walk through meadows
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.
 Jan 2014
Seán Mac Falls
I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?

The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.


I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?

*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.
 Jan 2014
Seán Mac Falls
The lost elk on blue pine mountain,
Where all the stunted world is small,
Know the face of winter as it founts,
Above tree lines, trumpet all is cold.
 Jan 2014
Seán Mac Falls
Pond lilies basking,
Misty buds of sleepy rain,
  .  .  .  Water envelopes.
 Jan 2014
Kevin Eli
***
Your skin doesn't lie,
Your lips don’t either.
The soft touch of hand,
Upon body,
You give in.
Sweat, spilled wine and swoon,
Your heart skips a beat,
Only to match mine
In sync.
Lights on, lights off.
Beat harder,
Breathe faster,
Using our bodies to see each other.
Stop and go
Holding our breath,
Gripping the sheets
Until it’s over.
 Jan 2014
Kevin Eli
I have beautiful nightmares still to this day of our times together.
I see her face, of which I do not like to recall but nevertheless, blindingly unforgettable.
Just the burning ashes and shadowy silhouettes that dance in the corridors of my mind between darkened doorways and buzzing lights.
No wind, growing still air and a stench of old sketch books and burning lighters.

Some things you wish you could forget, while others, you wish you could remember.
 Jan 2014
Kevin Eli
Funny how you can see yourself at the bottom of the barrel for your entire life.
Funnier how you can end up being at the top of the food chain.
Sad how some people never learn to let go.
Sadder how some people can never hold on.

A year has gone by.
I have been high, I have been low.
I can never go or come back again, experience goes to show.
I'm over it, I'm done. I kicked it all for good.
Just keep moving, walking and breathing, just like you should.
Because you are beautiful. I knew you always were.
Just smile and watch my feet as they move through the neighborhoods.
 Jan 2014
Seán Mac Falls
Lone raven cackles  .  .  .
Clouds splinter across the sky,
Mist cuts down the woods.
 Jan 2014
Seán Mac Falls
Words, utter, deconstruct,
Pure truth is now, tainted.
Always two ways of seeing,
Right is mighty and written,
The blinking stars, warning,
Over heads of manly stone,
Silent testimony unheeded.
Faith, the hearts perdition,
The exquisite supplication,
The tyrants dream so freely
Spun for turning heads tips
As baubles do when moon
Is full or the sun is searing.
Is the world really flat? Are
The angels already among
Us or do birds surely winter
On the moon?
There once were superstitious explanations for birds disappearing in winter: that they either hibernated, or turned into other species. A third common misconception, originating from a pamphlet published in 1703, was that birds actually spent the winter on the moon.
 Jan 2014
Seán Mac Falls
Under the muted bark of hazelnut trees,
Spurious, sprite juncos scurry in vertigo,
Pecking, replete bouncing downy knees,
Grounded, tuft, constellation of Scorpio.
 Jan 2014
bambi
I want to be
in a flesh warm home
with walls the color
of bone.

One of the homes
where ugly is kept
'neath fresh white faces

and all that lies
'hind lily frames
inevitably erases.
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