By Jayson G Kleinman
“Love is by no means simple, nor is it lacking in danger. The pursuit of love, of self-discovery, of mutual romantic understanding, can often lead to confusing (and at times) violent situations. The last few years of my life have been ones of self-discovery, where I’ve traversed spaces outside of where I thought I could go, at times for the good and at times for the worse. Ultimately those experiences and the words that I’ve made from them are wholly selfish interpretations, but at the end of the night, whether alone or in bed with another, the words are often all that I’ve had to draw from in order to find someplace safe to rest.”
I don’t smoke (‘cept for special occasions),
so it never appeals to me, ‘cept when it comes from your lungs.
Lover of Language
“Posso ofrirti una bevanda?”,
dared to be followed by a smile, the hint of gin,
juniper blossom and sin hidden behind too-white eyes and ivory.
“Fique a manhã”,
whispered against the nape of your neck,
baked in sunlight through fresh linen curtains,
and with a turn, simply seductive,
Hands resting on their shoulder, leaden, malformed in electric light,
“J’ai promis t’adore toi pour toup les temps”,
or perhaps they were always waiting, monstrous in shadow,
waiting to be lit in this confined stairwell, waiting to be known, truly,
“Je n’ai jamais compris.”
Search and Destroy
“It never should have”
Orphaned, damned lost.
“Like waves, heat and lust, it wrapped me”
Shame is a cowards blanket in imagined eyes.
“Trusted you to guide me, I put myself in your care”
Foolhardy, there is no recovery; only the promise of more.
“Couldn’t… just couldn’t. You can understand… can’t you understand?”
Only the promise; the scent upon the air, soon to follow, over again.
In Search Of
Beginnings are easy:
the act of shining light
into a darkened room
and claiming it the world.
Endings…. elude, desperately
running, the bane and the breaker,
shifting as if mist, ephemeral whispers…
In search of a death, there’s universality, that
all things must end once on the path of living.
But this desperation, perhaps it’s created fog?
Perhaps this is a mans attempt at playing God,
in a fashion no less cruel,
more so, for its presumed generosity.
Ours is like a Vegas wedding,
or a neon sign
flashing by the side of a thoroughfare in Thousand Oaks, California,
or a million other dusty blacktop roads anytime, anywhere:
a flash, momentary and colorful,
nothing spectacular, but enough to light up like an explosion in your memory,
and remembered more fondly as a signifier
of places that never were,
times that weren’t quite,
and only oh so real in the half-formed memory
of teenagers we no longer remember being.
bare to the wind,
wanting to be…
Jayson Kleinman is a writer originally from New Jersey, now living out in Los Angeles. Working professionally as a tech writer in the graphic industry, he has had work published in poetry journals, written as a sports journalist for basketball news and comedy sites, and published essays on media history and its impact on modern culture.
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