Every

Every breath, a hypocrite.
Every death, a broken oath,
fulfilled.
Every test, a new
and old testament.
Every self, a slipped
open shirt sleeve.

Giver

I will not give
away an easy aquiescence,
nor a tongue-held moment
to
a bonded fate
disrespectful of my consent.

I have given until I gave
out.

Even the word—‘give’;
surrender.

Too deep inside it, could not spell it out.

Now, I get a good
give(got it like it likes
to get got, on the town) to give back,
for good,
freely talking about all
of what is given from me.

Will give it to myself, to me, of ‘all of me’.

A given giver, that I am, and always
was.

If I Were

א.
If I were
only a dripping drop—
a drop
of hidden tincture in ground-level
topsoil,
of aqua-collected
groupings.

ב..
(Then I)
could crane my gaze
heavensward
and lick the conifer
tips carrying nebulous future projects
(hindsight),
and pacify juvenile hymnals
on occasion,
elected in pugnacity, offering
play-time counter-
arguments against their lone creator
to a least
illegible moniker: a passing unblemished
streak of behavior;

ג
(if I were) only a dripping drop.

ד….
If I were
only a puffing pool—
pooling
translucent biomorphisms,
Miro-esque,
sinking, sunk, and risen,
participation about a series:

ה…..
trigonometric altercations;

ו……
if afloat
then unencumbered,
sudden, unevening,
atemporal, descending,
and preternatural—
darkly liquefied,

ז…….
a hollow of humming earthen dirges
in transit,
bellowing, yodelling, contrapuntals,
sounding off
to the human drum,

ח……..
but for Lorca’s
language-endowed gekkos
a wily brass
elongation
and a dark crusting
bark;

ט………
(if I were) only a puffing pool.