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Saturday, July 29, 2017

Poetry from the heart, about the heart


realistically I allowed her to remove my heart and chop holes the size of rainy afternoons through and through the thing
why should you care telling me later, you never use the damn thing
she, SHE, was the one, meeting her began a transitional transformation within me,
growth, real human growth where I no longer thought of her, of all the women in my life as anything more than masturbatory aides,
spitoons for my sperm
instead, something akin to human form
that in itself was a monumental hurdle
it's not as though I ever once acknowledged that she might be a real person
capable of changing me
it's not as though I ever truly exhibit anything resembling emotions
even I'm not certain if they were there or just totally absent from my existence
It's not as though I ever inquired about any aspect of her life, tasks, friends, family
perhaps it is indeed as if I just   plain   didn't    care
she told me that my belief that I am superior to everyone was baseless
I responded that I only felt superior to those that I'm superior to.
her laugh allowed me to see just how silly that is
she rode with me on sepia rainbows toward the infinite sovereignty of my individual consciousness tricking my mind with intent, and desire
allowing me to learn that the color of love isn't visible, it's an expression, an intent,
a barrage of pleasures, multi-orgasmic, breathless, messy, and yet ever so satisfying
an embrace of reality between two naked bodies sharing time space passion smells sweat

I can't ask her to return the pieces, I'm sure she tossed them about, the detritus of just another of the relationships, the conquests, the dissections of men she performed
there is no method for reassembly of one's heart, when one has never before needed it
used it, or allowed it to surface,
is it truly necessary?
I’m thinking now, yes…