The Noresoup Jukebox

May be with you Despite the relentless heat May be with you  Through the solitude May be with you Despite the many losses May be with you Though your truth misconstrued May be with you Despite the deaths May be with you  As you find yourself May be with you Despite the aching May be with you To carry you to June

They have rough hands unskilled in love, And could not make a thing out of wood. They furrow their brows at the thought of  Doing anyone any small bit of good. And, of course, human are they, still, So, they cry and moan even if without sound. But they come out of it entitled, To every woman's womb, ears, and somehow Suppose that their pain is bigger than the woman's plights like they fight demons only known to men. Well, Harpman, shall we tell them, We were only 8 when we befriended them. So marvelous do they paint their spirit And special do they feel for reading works of complicated men; Men who knew no better, far less, Than the women who fed and raised them. A look at their soul, so empty and bland; So lustful for their lost mothers' affection, And vain do they continue to be, For they are very well appeased by a lass' feigned attention. Not knowing she would rather be left in solitude To write and read, To be cared for by buzzing bees and then be stung, Dying with...

April landed me softly in a hospital bed, veins poked countless times by needles and a thread. glad to have good company come by to watch my demise. they ask me if I am feeling better, obliged, I wince, quite alright. Then of course, the disappointments settle in, for whom you showed up for and the little who chimed in. Even just to take a peek at your condition and say,  you'll be better, I'll pray for you, be happy and well. Well, faith in your prayers so the illness leaves me be,  And in my sorry corner, with death do I make peace. But then all the love I've ever known, knocked on my window to say hello. So I let the light in, good day to you. And they stay the night, so no bidding adieus. And my phone buzzes from all the sorry men who disappoint me, I leave them be. For a sorry man leaves the tender-hearted hard at heart, and I choose to flee. No man shall come by now to steal my peace, And the experience of my grace, aptitude, and passionate tears. So tired am I of the...

the process is easy but toughened by minds that get queasy at the thought of finding words beyond the five letters  perturbed by  the response not yet known. easier to say than to admit  that one did everything wrong  because one did not know what it feels like to stand in someone else's shoes, big or small and they all say they hurt when their shoes are new, and not yet worn by onlookers, witnesses, past lovers, yet barricade their feet from moving past like blisters are promised. well what if, you worry about the blisters you cause and how it may have ruined the wearer and their feet and their gait. well what if, the hurt you cause is bigger than yours and pain is a thing that comes from you to others, knowing, unknowing. How to say sorry, perhaps do not say it at all. perhaps reserve the pretense, the crying after the milk, spilled, perhaps clean it up and soothe the sorrow, for words cannot tackle all that has been burrowed.

All you need is a drop of feigned affection And of course, the world must know! Loose lips that parade a love not known, But the imagined kiss that leaves the head through the mouth --- A desire, turned fable, turned truth,  And of course, the world must know! "That it did not happen, but oh! it could have. Had I placed myself more endearingly, She would have rushed to my arms and kissed me! But I held myself back, so that she would too." What a damn fool. Little men talk of such grand affections, So empowered do they feel by their fables, Of people praising them, loving them, wanting to be them, Oh, and all the women pine and yearn for them, And of course, the world must know! Little men are only empowered by grand fabrications, This performance of the man they would like to be. How pathetic. Now, the world must know! Oh, you little men of imagined power, Standing tall at 5 feet small, How bizarre the world must seem from down there, I guess I don't blame you for your de...

And so, the church barely remembered my name Though I was only gone a few weeks or so. Perhaps I should have made grander entrances. So I may be remembered for my flair, If my name is meant to be unknown.  To be loved is to be remembered, So tragic was my easy transition to oblivion. Ah, well, What does it matter? Though I ruminated all the way home, When I reached my apartment --- all empty, dark, and cold, I opened my fridge and sat in the light, The fridge, my sun, Kinder as to cool the unforgiving heat, Finding refuge from the awful summer night. Was it my disposition? Should I have ignored the spiritual call? But the sun reminds me that I do exist,  And I did not have to worry after all. Rays blocked by shelves filled with loved things; Meat that my mother brought from home. Among the loveliest, 3 pairs of peaches, Rolling out the bottom shelves to break my fall.