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Sunday, April 7, 2013


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Love Lockdown,

I miss you, honey.

I miss going to dinner with you.

Where ever I turn,
Whenever I look up and down the streets,
I keep thinking I see you.
It’s the damnedest thing!

By the way, I’ve decided to discard,
Throw out some of the poetry.
Of course, you must know why!
It has me loving you too much.

Oh! Those notes I took,
The notes of all our telephone conversations,
Sister, that’s a painful lot!

I documented all your promises, your assurances,
As if it mattered, or had real weight,
I transcribed them, then asked you to repeat them.
I hoped thereby you might remember
How many times you had given me your word.

I wrote them all down, my questions, your answers.

I can look back, should anyone have interest,
And figure the exact dates of those, your pledges.

But the exercise would require work,
Because in the record of those,
Our long-distance dialogues,
I reckoned time according to lunar calendar.
They read, for instance, first, Monday, December.
Across one sheet I found it significant that
You had telephoned me from Florida this last October,
A day which directly followed the second,
The so-called Harvest Moon, a moon whose rise
The previous night I had sighted over Forest Avenue.

Upon those paper records I sometimes drew,
(The right term here might be doodled.)
Regular zodiac signs. Silly guy, huh?
I pretended knowledge.
I played the role of old-time astrologer,
Someone who predicated life’s lot on planetary whirl,
Who posited ill or good fortune from an abstract,
The ups and downs of a human individual's existence
Based upon the conjunction of remote bodies,
How everyday events fit within a starry belt
And could be known and actually foretold.

I was dream-wishing.
It was make-believe, pathetic.

Might your last satellite communication, I wondered,
Be housed on a plane
Where moon rises into constellation, Leo?

It all gets very primitive when dealing with you.


When I concentrate,
Concentrate on my abandon, on my love,
Take the time and thoroughly examine
The range, the extent of my feelings for you,
My heart wells, fills up like a balloon, ready to burst.

Overwhelmed, stretched to utmost circumference,
Its membrane reaches thinnest extreme,
It helps to explain
Just how sensitive I am to your every desire.

If I remember to relax,
Should I try to stop holding on,
Just simply let you go,
Then I can not help but feel gratitude,
Give thanks for the moment,
The every hour afforded me to share with you.

At other times I fall to absolute delusion,
And believe that I write great poetry,
The words I pen immortal,
Celebrate you and me for the ages,
That future readers might pine and swoon, as I do here,
And then wonder what great grace sanctioned lyric,
Allowed it to express the sentiment that ours was destiny, 
And yes, permitted me to publish the story, –
How deep and far our love ranged.

I guess that I believe we are constantly being reborn.
I go through all these thoughts, again – again,
Hoping against hope,
Seeking a glimmer, some glimmer,
Fingers crossed for incredible stroke of luck,
Trust your return to my arms once more.


I have a real problem;
It’s when I look about.
I see other couples, pairs, tight,
Together for the afternoon, daylight upon their faces,
All lovey-dovey, they walk along the avenues.

It bothers me seeing them; they sit in cafes and read
Newspapers and books, and sip from bottles of water.

I envy them. I do not have you.

World seems happier place
When people have each other to depend on,
And romance animates their bodies and faces.

I am sorry to conclude, you’re a mean person.

You went away; my sole companion now my work.


Am I making this up as I go along?

But the fact remains
That you have gone and I am home alone.
You left me all by myself with my freedom.
I fear that I have fallen prey to mine own emptiness.

Were you to belong to me, I swear, I wouldn’t,
I wouldn’t share you with any one, with anything.

Time and place reduced to you and me,
You at center of it all!

Dream comes true!

It would feel more like love, sweet love,
Than me, here, sitting lost,
Trying to figure the situation, or
How I might say it proper,
Finally to convince you, love too precious a thing,
Often once in a life-time event,
And ought never be willfully discarded, thrown away.
Hope I haven’t upset you.

Maybe that’s the real difficulty,
The source of us being driven apart,
I am just too romantic.

You, you seek something else.
Perhaps you are simply more practical, reasonable.
My flights of fancy and over-heated emotion,
Not things you have in mind.

Do not worry!
I have the capability of living with my beliefs.

But, darling, you must take pity,
Open your heart -- for you say you still love me.
Mercy please! Forgive me, I lack resolve.

I am unable to start anew, to make life without you.

I am still not over this thing of ours.

I haven’t gotten over it, the beauty,
All the wondrous times,
I haven’t gotten over my being with you.

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