CONFESSION ZERO

I traded in my pen and paper for a new keyboard and left behind all my cadence and metaphor... My fingers gliding along her backspace and tab savoring, staying longer on her improper nouns than on her damp and present tense verbs. She yearns to feel my tap tapping fingers and my rhythm of enter, control and escape. She pulls me in with her forward tab and insert keys as I move victoriously across her caps lock and F8. O! If only the world had such a traversable face. © 2009 by mark prime

Of this moment what is it that you want? Her gallant nakedness clutching at flowers and shaking herself upright again. Her margins and chest filled with grand laughter at the things she’s most ready to do. Her eyes reading wonderfully tall and magnificent letters dispatched from all points of her reach. Her lips coursing a voyage over freedom with a blazing hope, shaking the limbs of all dread-filled faces. Her émigré colors moving together, loving, holding one another in luscious, tender whispers. To witness her thighs draped over our ready shoulders as we seek out her yielding flesh. The winged creature with her supple neck bent down, smiling upon her just desserts. Her rebellious shape hovering over the people’s hunger, steadying herself for eager tongues. That she rise up now, and with her flesh, wet and yearning, touch upon those most in need. Her long and loving hands opening up to us in freedom, lifting our sleepy faces to the sun. © 2008 mrp/thepoetryman...

I cannot teach you violence, as I do not myself believe in it. I can only teach you not to bow your heads before any one, even at the cost of your life. __Mahatma Gandhi To the hardened freedom on the crown of winter where coldness flourishes, they've come again. Bloody faced women in their nightclothes, humming such lovely howls as they rock their children to sleep, listening for footsteps on the porch, torment... come… stumbling home. Women brushing their hair as if it were love, daubing makeup to dilute the venom they can’t escape. Tears, useless, even their children’s smiles carry them to frowning. Thoughts of shattering themselves down upon the night of fear, bloody faced women brought to an end, drained, fingers gliding over the cold barrel. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman Twit it!

Once upon a time... A giant of anger stood seething. Fine art looked into the monster’s eyes, waiting for which moment he’d smash his tall hands through love’s kingdom. Looking down upon art, the giant flinched, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT? The musician glided over the strings, There’s more use in your hands than fists. The dancer floated across the floor, You’ve so much more to give than rage. The playwright bled upon the page, Your very breath is the soul. The aria lifted its royal cry, She trembles at your voice. Vibrancy swam atop the canvas, Unclench your fist. The poet then stood alone before the monster waiting for which moment he’d smash his tall hands through love’s kingdom. O! Let go thy rage and use, foul beast! that her beauty might claim its faith, and all the sinister hearts of horrid fury might stumble upon love’s tender devotion... © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

The mirror now stands before us, Torn sleeves and skin, she's come to watch the sorrow dripping down, the sap of our veiled shame, our abysmal indifference… Disgrace, the fickle comrade, has not discouraged her, kept her from loving us fully though she’s been seen weeping in the temple of mankind. We try to imagine her echo shattering man’s tall ceiling and the sharp storm falling down over the world, we even imagine massaging the ache from her body but our hands remind her of her fathers. Bleeding out across the landscape, she covers her eyes with our callused paws and the pale swag of decay As we step away, stagger back from ourselves, unable to let go, our scent upon her pain. The mirror speaks to us and tries to hold us in, to rescue us a small piece at a time as our rooted shame draws back our arms to strike- caught in this snapshot of our pre-existing condition we look stunned, wild animals paralyzed by the light. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman American ...

Today the sky wove its deep thread of cold winds as if to rake dying grass like a doctor suturing wounds. Last year it was the same. O! Teach us not to break things! Teach us to love! Give us the tools to overcome our blindness. Help us find the warmth, hands and breath, instruments threading affection instead of cruelty, temperate winds weaving blankets for happiness to lie in. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

Sovereignty. Cradle. Twin Rivers. 2002. That was the then, patriot. Bursts of flesh, groan of empire, now. This, the sun's testimony, script. A country’s story. Broken land. O! Terminate her now, dear patriot! Sands scrape ahead of winter, brittle are her arid bones. Split. Over ripe. Dithering. Bent. Pierce the center, the hidden heart. O! Blood and child! Now’s the time to grieve, patriot. Toss tears to wind and soil as souls drift by in wooden boxes. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman