The Sieve

The Sieve

Here's what I am saying.
When sent, message trumps messenger.
Receiver reads sent, not intended to convey.
All thoughts come in at the top of the head.
They filter down. God help you if there is no
sieve.

My mother had several. None of them were
installed in her head, but she made terrific rolls.
I've excelled in different areas. No baking.
But I try to ensure that what I say
has fallen through what would have left flour
trapped.

c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2009

A Puff of Steam

A Puff of Steam

I've never eaten one of these, until tonight.
If it were only that walk through Lannis Park
where we heaped leaves in a pile, and fell,
kicking like kids. If it were only that look.
The bug-eyed one when your steak arrived.
I told you, at The Mill, rare means raw!

If it were only the way you let me lick the salt
from your fingers at the movie. How you cried.
And then, remember that nametag? When I
touched it and said, "Isaac, she said Tic-Tacs!"
You spit several, later, in perfect trajectory,
to my mouth. If it were only this. Only this.

We had walked until the Earth threatened to
return us to our origins. All the while laughing.
Loving. I removed my right glove, you, your left.
You exhaled the moon. I sucked every molecule
into my lungs, and I would have willingly fallen
backwards, nothing but air to not catch me.

-- c. Ciprianowords Inc. 2009 --

Crumpling

Crumpling

You and I have never gone for forgiveness purely
for the sake of morality. And I am thankful. It's less
confusing this way. But God, we like writing, huh?

How many have I received from you? Hundreds?
Notes threatening everything -- murder to suicide.
Historically, you have had better subject matter.

So, of course, your stuff will be getting good reviews.
Now, I've just fashioned a bestselling little diatribe.
But, planning to leave it here, the walls become thin.

Between this and the next room, I hear a weeping.
Crumpling what I've written, I quietly move myself,
and at that doorway, resolve -- to never write again.

c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2009

Gold and White

Gold and White

Tell me two true things my dear, and we heard a flapping.
Well, the water is gold and those darlings are white.

Au contraire, said I. You speak of solar reflection.
And no bird was ever all white, it is but their feathers.

This is when you, pulling a clump of sod, fed me it.
And I rolled you off the blanket as those wings beat the air.

c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2009

Flipping The Pages

Flipping The Pages

Concentration level. Lack of distraction.
Both of these factor into the final equation.
Mb + Hb = Siadf. And "b" is a constant.
We are reading the same book!

I lower my sunglasses and do that lateral
eyeball roll, trying to see her page number.
Good Lord! It's not possible. 135?
We've only been here on the beach an hour!

Let's see, that guy came around with drinks,
and then, oh yes, I snoozed a bit, but still!
How can I only be at 35? Without the 1 in front!
My book + Her book = She is always done first.

c. Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Outdoing The Moon

Outdoing The Moon

Walking from the theater, the wet asphalt glistening
under our shadows preceding and receding, streetlamps
outdoing the moon. You, waving that persistent cabbie
on – there are others, needier than us Ishmael. Find them,
and God be with you – spoken in faux bigotry only I heard.

You are someone always on stage, yet never. Being
more than a self, the star opts for understudy, or prompter.
The person that draws, closes the curtain. How lovely
to walk beside you and know who you really are, this night.
This damp, glorious encore. Not an opening scene, but a bow.

I refer to the light now falling from the hotel window, onto
your sleeping face. Earlier, when Gavroche was shot
you reached over, and catching my tears, ate them --
Never once taking your eyes from the stage, nor caring
that I saw it all -- How then, am I now supposed to sleep?

c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2009

Plus Sign

Plus Sign

In a minute, I will tell you why I smiled.
Suspicion aroused, you asked me
What are you laughing at?
Oh, there’s a great magnetic gulf between
hilarity and smiling, I replied,
[heavily committed to the latter thing].

Cells assigned to memory, recall.
Weeping inside, I conjured the image.
You, reaching up to write our names
on the wood. I focused then on one thing
joining us, as you fell dizzy, into my arms,
tossing your balance to the four corners.

Here we are again, decades later.
I smiled just now, knowing that nothing
would ever erase your graffiti.
Trust me, as I live. All our fridge magnets
will fall clattering to the linoleum, before
that one plus sign will ever erode.

c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2009

Clink

Clink

-- our glasses met with that noise, following.
Two glaciers colliding would sound the same
if they weren't made of millennia-old ice and
six miles fucking wide full of frozen tons of
scraped tundra, rocks and -- fossil-garbage

-- mastodon scrotums, and half-digested shit
of things that died while eating whatever it was
they caught that flew too slowly and low, before
we filmed a single beast catching things.
All of this raced through my synapses --

-- as our glasses met with that distinct and final
sound. And raised to the level of yours, through
the cubes, I saw your eyebrows. All distorted.
As wonderful as anything I have ever seen or
imagined to have existed on this orbiting ball.

c. Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Click

Click

It's killing me slowly.
Affording an appreciation of now,
then. What was, is, makes sense
only through this lens of ending.
What had a beginning must have
closure -- Snapped open, shut.

Learn from photography.
Existing -- click -- preserved.
Nothing changes the mid-moment,
and nothing can. What we are
is no movie but a snapshot. And
movement? Repetition of a singularity.

If you are reading this, you are alive.
This is all we know. Not quite. A writer
wrote it. Beyond this, we guess.
[Who took this? Are you trying to drown that beach ball?]
What is it that's killing me slowly?
Oxygen. Living.

c. Ciprianowords Inc. 2009