Notebook

That Love

That Love

She was the love 
only traumatic 
brain injury
might grant you 
more than one of
in a lifetime…

the love 
this twisted 
Universe sent 
to you long before
you were mature
enough to handle it… 

the love 
every other love
got compared to
in ways you’d 
never dare to say 
to her successors…

the love 
whose memory
revisited you 
every time 
you seemed to find 
yourself in between loves…

the love 
that made 
the advent of social 
media technologies
both a blessing 
and a curse…

the love that, 
in down time,
fills your heart
and plagues your mind
with If onlys and I wonders…

Notebook

In these pages are my phases

of development

Places where the eloquent

insights of intelligence

are wrought like iron barz with heat

like shining stars release

I build worlds with speech

like I AM GUARD-

ing all that I purvey:

copyright

I build it with skilled wordplay

Intellectual property writes

house what is mine

vividly in the mind

Do the math

My paragraphs

are architecturally designed

Engineered to stand

like pyramids withstand

the striking hands

of the sands of time

in ancient lands

Recorded like the quotes

of sages who bespoke

deep phrases

Turn these pages

and read my book of note!

-HymnAgen

Do I Mire in The Muck?

Should I say things

I should not convey

when I feel things

that I ought not?

Unearth notions

I should not consider

like, “Do I reveal

what best remains hidden?”

just as a sealed juve case

long since forgiven

such that I may deny

its existence with impunity

today?

What soothes a mind

plagued by its tendency

to crave fruits remembered

lasciviously as tender

and succulent –

a delight to somatic appetites?

My faculties restless

as a teenaged male –

sexless for prolonged stretches

on a fourth dimensional vector

while surrounded by flirtatious

dimes toying with his mind,

and still the strength I find

to walk the narrows straightly

has never wavered until lately

Emotion’s Call

A number.

A dial.

A greeting.

A smile.

Regressed to a child.

Time stops for a while.

The past is rehashed.

Some silence.

Some laughs.

A lump in a throat.

A tear on a lash.

Alternate paths

considered at length.

The longing to ask,

but so little strength.

The utter of stutters,

but absence of words

that first flowed so freely

when voices first heard.

Metamorphosis from

ease to awkwardness.

Tongue tethered and numb

like Novocained gums.

Silly thoughts chasing

the memories racing