Large Tree

Large Tree

I hugged it, and not for
conservation purposes.
No desire to tie myself to the thing.
Just wanted to listen to lungs
expand as mine did
- in, out, in -
my foot resting on a gnarled
protrusion. So far down that death
cannot breathe, the large tree
sucked wet into itself.
Eight hundred years before I cried
this beast hugged earth
waiting for me.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Window

Window

Sand, of all things, melted.
Poured.
Cooled.
A significant stage in our evolution,
dividing in from out,
allowing a vision of the latter.
Invisible, until you tap on it.
Cold is held back, to an extent.
Wind, insects, rethink a flight plan.
No oceanview without this.
It raises rents. Lets you drive.
De-prisons a wall.
God looks at one, seeing us.
Incubators, the room they are in.
The opposite of a mirror.
Eyeballs.
Sand, of all things, melted.

I breathe on this one,
writing your name in the steam.
This is what I first saw you through.
And ever since.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

One Good Reason

One Good Reason

One good reason will suffice -- with that
I’ll shelve my query and retract everything
spoken, before the wine. I want to know.
Is it simply busyness?

Or the cares? The worries of the day?
I will yet recant, before pouring another.
But tell me, Love. Observe, if you will
the inclination of her head.

Does it not appeal to you?
The veiled light? The gown itself, how it slips
from her shoulders? Yet, she is enwrapped,
Oh – oh, my heart.

I shall pour us each another of this shiraz
while I wait. And you do look thoughtful.
There is no wrong answer my dear. My
true love constrains me.

My own thought is that you would rather move
the hands forward than hear the clock tick.
But we have all night. One good reason,
and I am in no hurry.

Do you not at all envy the ease of the right
knee upon the left? Let me repeat for you
the original question – Why have I not once
seen you in such a state?

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Peeling Away

Peeling Away

As you were talking, I looked up.
It was when the waitress brought the shooters.
Some wallpaper was liberating itself of the wall.
Peeling intent. Determined.
In all of its paisley-glory --
I
am
not
sticking
to
this
damn
thing
a
moment
longer –
Coinciding with the end of your harangue.
And for the love of God I nodded at you
and agreed most vehemently. But, to the
same God I swear --
I was really nodding at that wallpaper.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Me + You = Us

Me + You = Us

To say “you are the other half of me”
is incorrect.
I am whole, without you.

And you are, too. Whole,
without me.
But this is the key to the equation.

Only when it does not need to,
does the equal sign crawl
from its hiding place.

Half of one, and half of one,
will never be two.
Only one plus one.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Constellation

Constellation

There were dots on her shoulder, more than this
I cannot say. In that moment I closed my eyes
and leaned into her
constellation.

Any scientist will tell you that no one has ever escaped
such a journey. Gravitational forces are too great,
and at that speed you are
light.

In that moment, time itself reconsiders, and yet
cannot do anything about its current direction.
Everything you have ever wanted to do, you are
doing.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

No Question

No Question

Anyone ever ask you who you would rather be?
Than you, as in?
The person that asked me, was me,
and repeatedly so.

Here’s the weird thing.
Who are the most revered among us?
Jesus? Buddha? Mohammed? Gandhi?
Would you want to be any of these guys?

My answer is David Gilmour, the guitarist.
He’s quite good-looking. To my knowledge
he is healthy. And here’s the best part:
His wife writes his latest lyrics.

He makes his living filling in blanks
that have long since been filled in.
When it comes to alternate realities,
this is what is known as a no-brainer.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Warmth

Warmth

Not that I saw them, but I felt them. Ice crystals
on my upper lip. Steam preceding me, wrapping
‘round my frozen thoughts -- boots breaking an
endless row of bones against a dog’s distant bark.
That’s how warm it was, walking home tonight.

“Warm”?
The coldest we have ever felt, is warmth.
Lingering effects of an atomic blast, without which
we walk few steps further. Have the sun go out.
Speak to me eight minutes later, about cold.

The shaking key let me in to the building’s glow.
Pressing 14, I melted in the elevator. How
vulnerable we are -- how utterly dependent upon
things none of us fathom, much less think about.
The door opened, to ever-increasing warmth.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Dance at Bougival

Dance at Bougival

Please, steer me clear of Juliet if you must speak so –
[and he does] -- she leans away, but her ears are like
pincers, and nothing escapes them, my darling.

Why must we care, why? Oh love, I would declare unto
the entire drunken fleet, “I have fallen, thrice-stricken
by Eros, Venus, and Aphrodite.”

Please, your right hand above my sash if you will –
[and he does] – that’s better, we must for the sake of
appearances if nothing else, maintain some decorum.

Why must we do so? Love, I would trace with my tongue
the red trim of your bodice against this very poplar in the
presence of these witnesses that worry you so.

Please, that may well be, but if you do so love me –
[and he does] -- you will lead me from here, even now,
that thine impropriety may be properly, received.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009
→ CLICK ←

my scared

my scared

so it was as though i floated away and there is no
other way I can tell you. the earth became distant.
i got scared, not like when something frightens you.
the kind of scared when you want it. everything
was black, but the opposite of nothing.

hovering means something below you and there
wasn’t, so I can’t tell you what we were doing but
we were not falling. the only way I knew there was
anyone beside myself was because my scared
was the kind when you want it.

no one spoke but we breathed, and when we did
little puffs of whiteness covered continents. fell over
a hemisphere, an ocean like a cloud. then I heard
without words but loud, and quiet, imagine this.
to close my eyes would snap the equator shut.

this ball of blue future, hurtling. i listened as i’ve
never listened, and drenched a rain forest in mist.
gravity falling in upon itself, and – as I said, none
of this was scaring me, because my scared was
cared for and black was the opposite of nothing –

all that you see here not being able to recover.
every pinprick of orbited fire, gone. i shivered, but
not in fright, for in that moment my scared taught me
what i’d sought, a long life ago. without turning, i
concluded, impossible, and felt a nod.

because we are here to discuss this. we breathed
out those white puffs of moisture, covering alaska,
china, entire seas. a loud silence, broken
by the presence to my right saying, no one but you
has ever known this, but even god has a god.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Congruence

Congruence

Something about the shade of your hair,
and what the window revealed, that afternoon.
A congruence. Greyness in each, truth be said.

One [yours] spoke of no return. The other,
of cycle. One day overcast, the next, sunny.
Renewal. Impermanence. Wait and see.

Of note, I’ve scanned the coast. Monday
blue, Tuesday grey. Same water of a week.
Waves tossing sunlight, or not.

All proves nothing. In the end, what is color?
What color is breath? Summer, clear.
Winter -- quite billowy. Quite grey.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Stifled

Stifled

So I watched this guy doing it, I guess.
Not just me, but everyone, applauding
the toilet plunger thing absorbing the blast.
The word stifle appeared on my mindscreen
and this is not unusual. Things
often appear there, on my mindscreen.

But this time I actually set my drink down.
And, for perhaps the first time, I knew
the value of a stifling.
This song, the progression and melody
in this way, could not be, without it.
Reality would be too loud.

So I closed my eyes, and as I did, I
realized that I was stifling what I could see.
My eyes, wanting something less, shut,
no malice aforethought. “Of their own accord.”
What happens of its own accord?
[At least I’m not driving tonight.]

I looked up as he drained his spit valve.
Jesus Christ, I’ve had an epiphany, and it’s
not even midnight. My own muted life
is no disaster, and there’s still time to order
another Bacardi? All this I learned,
just now, watching Justo play his trumpet.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

The Rain Rained

The Rain Rained

When we extended our stay, both of us
agreeing, I knew that nothing could surpass
my joy. But the days proved me wrong.

There was that evening boat, and an afternoon
museum tour we would have missed.
Getting to know the croissant man, and licking
jam from your fingers, the muted television
our only light.

We did what was right, what we knew.
Felt. We fell.
Never will our eyelids erase a little girl
smiling, blushing as we lost ourselves
in the diner. Her mother tapping her plate.

When we chose to stay on, when we sighed.
The last night, who folded the umbrella?
No matter.
We each drank of the cloudburst.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

Tell Me

Tell Me

Turned away, my lover murmured,
I actually think that others often see us more clearly than we see ourselves.

Into her neck I agreed.
How can any of us do otherwise?

A story is a re-telling, every word a reflection
of something other. Little good it did Narcissus
to stare and stare. And stare.

My lifetime, I wonder, and have wondered
how it shall end. Holding I am lovely!
to a mirror.

!ylevol ma I
Better that someone else should see this.
And tell me.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008

Here We Are Now

Here We Are Now

How can I sleep, leaving so much unread.
Notice, it’s not a question.
How can I leave here with so much unwritten.
Again, no one asking.

Why should I climb aboard a train I bought no
ticket for, clacking toward a stop I want not.
I like when my chest goes up, from the down.
No desire to leave it there, flat.

Porter, tell someone else this is their stop.
Or another, “Here we are now.”
I’m nowhere near done. In fact, I do not
remember agreeing to a single –

You know what? [first question] I can carry
that, if this is my damn stop. Already
the trees that flew past my window for days
are missed missed missed. I would climb them.

Would. Wood. What I desire. And trees.
I recall a lifetime of such speculation, but
God, these bags are filled with gravity.
And [second question] how far am I to drag them?

There were as many books before you were born.
Yes, but don’t tell me that, not now. And as much
unwritten – oh please, no more questions.
Notice, no one was asking one.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008

Squirrel

Squirrel

Oh, so humiliating, to be reduced
To such – such irreducibility.
To have this one, accentuating feature
so – so – accentuated.

I try to hide it, yet can’t.
It’s there. It’s there, I must admit.
Confounded bushiness,
how I despise thee.

I’d prefer “puff-cheeked,”
“buck-toothed,” or “talon-footed.”
But no. The accursed appendage
shall surely chase me graveward.

Would it help you, dear rodent?
I promise you, I swear.
I shall never once, when referring to you
use the term, “bushy-tailed.”

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008

She Listened

She Listened

She listened, while I said things.
None of them [my things] made sense.
Even to me, truth be known [but it wasn’t].
It [my words] made sense, not.

But she was listening, so on I went.
Out the window, beside her left eyebrow
some geese migrated south. I saw them
but she didn’t, because she listened.

A jet landed. I saw the wheels come out,
and the leaves in that tree turned orange.
[Still she listened] and on, like bees
I droned, making honey.

Flipping a page from October to November
she fixed her gaze on my babble. I missed
not a beat, but many points were lost
and the rain barrel filled with cold water.

White flecks of ice frosted the pane,
and with one breath the chill was gone.
It was not my breath, but hers. In back of it
was the word, “What?”

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008

Empty Skull of the Poetess

Empty Skull of the Poetess

What of all her musing if it comes to this?
Socket and jaw, lips that shall not kiss
beyond the compass of her time and place.
Recall the sadness of her thoughtful face,
the scratch of quill in candled bliss?

Oh, I do, I do. And few knew her my friend
as we did. ‘Tis so, agreed! To what end
shall we commit this find, will it rest
beside that of her husband, but blessed
above his station? This, I would intend.

Well then, let us carry them to the tomb
where they shall forever reside, in whom
they have believ’ed. None wrote like her,
nor jested as he. But let God himself confer,
Yorick’s wife wrote verse when in the womb.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008

Nomenclature

Nomenclature

We label a thing and think that’s what it is.
Meteor, nitrogen, corpuscles, larynx, God,
follicle. The goal seems to be simplifying,
acknowledging, and quite often, I fear,
dismissing.

An agreement of sorts is what we desire,
or common currency. Therein lies progress.
Admittedly, this is so. But what we name
did quite fine before us, and will do well
when we are no more.

The Earth is not the earth.
Blood is not blood.
Fire is not fire.

We each had a pulse long before
we knew of aorta, artery, or atrium.
May no words choke us, even as the letters
your mother, your father, decided upon --
continue to not be you.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008

Old Bucket

Old Bucket

All my life I’ve carried things.
So many falls so many springs.

Frosty mornings, cooler eves.
Boots below me kicking leaves.

Crooked handle, dented in.
Squeaks against the rusted tin.

Target practice, I’ve been there.
Years in barns with not a care.

Rediscovered, then re-used.
Refilled, hammered, and abused.

From this truth I have rebelled.
I’ve carried nothing. I was held.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008

Consumed

Consumed

My rough hands across the satin of your back
last night.
The raspiness was incongruent. You moaned.

There were infinitesimal hairs before my lips
met your shoulders, that I kissed.
My spirit left –

me.
You have redefined so much.

To leave or to continue.
My mind has never been so devoid of thought,
upon a subject.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008

What It Is

What It Is

Not necessarily the absence of loneliness
but as good a place as any to start. Because
it must include this. The bird without feathers
does not fly, but put a bunch on me!

So it’s more than orgasms, simultaneous
or otherwise. Glances, winks and baubles.
Should contain all of the above, along
with a scent of perfume unsprayed.

Edna told us it was going back and forth
all night on the ferry, with merriness. Or
so I freely interpret. And it is this, it surely
is, boat capsize or safely dock.

But at the top of the staircase is the landing.
Here we stop, and embrace, knowing that
none of these pinpricks of light below us hold
a mutually beneficial friendship, like ours.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008

The Rowers

The Rowers

Above the table, a Renoir of flush-faced rowers
Finished rowing, hangs. And he fishes a boiled
Egg from its shell, as she grabs his wrist,
The knife quivering.

Rather than saying, What? Now, at breakfast?
Or, I just had a shower! he sets down the knife.
Takes her face in his hands, and kisses a similar
Ruddy blush. Toast can be re-toasted.

Sweet Lord, you cannot hear the sounds from a
Room down the hall, nor see. For your ears,
Your eyes, are not here. You are there.
Only these two, are here.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008

Initiative

Initiative

I have seen that eyebrow raised just like that before.
If I’m not mistaken, back then it led to good things.

Why is it now I wonder?
Why is it now I hope?

I never wondered or hoped before.
Back then I knew.

Now you have cut silence in half with your eyes.
With a flicker, two letters vanished from impossible.

Come to me.
Let me add to your initiative.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008

Earlier

Earlier

Speak to me like you spoke nuzzling
as the fireworks quit echoing
and the smoke cleared.
Tell me what you said when the ducks
paddled toward the bread we threw.

Whisper what I felt when your soft hand
on mine, squeezed.
Shiver like you did before I wrapped
your own jacket ‘round your frame.
Feel what made you throw it from you
Earlier.

Tell me again, how Hopper speaks to you.
Show me that shadows are what words
want to be. When I take that book
from the shelf, recite to me the first sentence
as you turn to the night
and lift a glass to your lips.

Tell me what I already know
but want to hear now,
and keep hearing, until I am long dead.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008