the postcards i never sent

I fell in love with you
in Paris.
At the foot of that tower,
over the cityscape.
the steps at Montmarte.
The man outside the postcard shop
played our song.
and it was the first time i heard it.

I fell in love with you
in Florence,
There were sunsets over bridges,
a river in every town,
and an artist in Rome,
who may have been
you in your thousandth lifetime.

I fell in love with you
in Jungfrau,
the snow melting into
poems on my palms,
while the mountains stood
stubborn as you sometimes do.

I fell in love with you
in Amsterdam,
Tracing Sunflowers and a mad genius
with my senses,
Dodging bicycles and clouds,
laughing at things you said
miles ago.

Miles ago.

I look back at you miles ago.

whisper by breath,
praying the missives of a child,
catching the wind in the net of my fingers,
pushing my supplications to meld with the air.
Blowing away this spirit bolus to find you.

I fell in love with you.
In the Piazzas, Platze and Pleins,
up the stairs of millenia and down the slopes of
a warm hill in Beaujolais.

I fell in love with you.

Miles ago.

testosterone soap opera

It was that of every great narrative, there-in the dichotomies of human experience; good and evil, light and dark, adversity and triumph.

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Stories where they threaded; protagonists on the precipice, the victorious who rise from the ashes of their seeming defeat, the underdog, the powerful and arrogant, brothers in arms.
All of whom were smacked by those moments of utter futility, where even the brief marriage of hand on hand could mean the difference between pride and its death, where to grasp the tensile rope for support is to turn the battle on its flank.

DSC01386This is where gods are made and leveled.

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DSC01415There was the bitterness of being close enough to take Victory by her shoulder, only to have no witness of referee to your triumph. But as it is in the Great Plot that guides this through, Good will always prevail.
It is with every tale that there are those who are loved beyond fallibility and those who incite the fevered choirs of “You Suck! You Suck!” when they dare to displace heroes.
And as it is with all the stories of our times, there will always be the ebullient adulation of one or a mass who will erupt in the greatness of the moment when the right man holds up the leather and gold, for all to witness, “I am a champion!”

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