black coffee and philosophy

My black coffee is warm, the sun is peeking.

It said 7:02. I don’t understand

how phones can answer most of my questions

except the philosophical ones of how you can

be one person with two eyes

and another with an eye in the middle. It seems

most men are like this, it’s not a surprise.

I learned it from young, but the hope keeps

rising like your hardness. I wished I never

saw you now. I wished I never knew you now.

I thought you were someone else, excuse me.

I thought you spoke my language, you never

did. You researched me, googled me, and

made my name too large in print. It’s just a

name. I’m no one special. You’re the radiohead

song.

I think I see you everywhere, but

the truth is, all these thoughts are pointless.

My coffee is still warm and my libido

is still alive. I’m baking lemon cakes

now, I’m wearing no underwear.

I’m mentally ill now, I’m going crazy.

Aren’t you happy for me? I may even

try to kill myself for you. Wouldn’t

you love to have a trophy of all

of us? Lined up and direct

in reality

telling you how we are all so crazy,

so nuts–

to for have fallen for you.

If

If the water on the windowsill

could be your molecules

they would give me a paper

to smell

a pen to place safely away

near my utensils

think of me when it rains

how the droplets

become you and me

falling from the sky

like bullets on a battlefield

like trees in the rainforest

sometimes still

most times turbulent

aged and chopped

preserved and honoured.
From “Love & Vodka”

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Book Review of Scissors and Paper Hearts by Lex Letters

Lex Letters and I follow each other on Twitter and we instantly connected through our poems. I read her poetry book and couldn’t put it down. It is a poetry book full of passionate verse and full of a soul that touches your heart. “She was the exception to every rule,” her poem “Undiscovered” begins and that is essentially how the entire book grabs you. It shakes you bends you, and makes you search deep inside yourself for that love that broke you.

Lex Letters’ poetry evokes a yearning for lovers and longing, never quite fulfilled. It is as if lovers are talking, writing poems to each other. In her poem, “Hate” this excerpt stood out for me:

“Breathing is for the living

The rest of us are dying to survive

on expelled breaths and ink

forcing feeling onto paper

trying to make sense of the pain.”

Her poems take you to the past, the present pain and the distant future. The poems mostly live in the past and recount a relationship in moments she can’t forget through memories of being loved and of loving. Take this passage from her poem, “Imagine” where she tells us where she writes from, “I write from an internal beckoning, a raw and emotional grave.”

In this collection “Scissors and Paper Hearts” there is poetry that heals, letting go of a loved one, breaking up, scorned lovers, rage and a tumultuous love affair. I will not spoil the ending, but it is gut-wrenching.

In the poem, “Unsaid,” it begins, “Paper hearts stained, folded into letters, stuffed in pockets, left to be unread.” This, in essence is the crux of this poetry book. How we all live in glass houses, how worlds can fall apart in love, how passionately we can love another person, sometimes even more than they can possibly love us, resulting in an emptiness that most people who fall in love recognize and can connect with her poems. I highly recommend this poetry book.

 

Lex Letters can be found on the following social media links:

Twitter: @_inkaddictionx

Facebook : @Lex Letters Author Page

https://www.spilledinkwellwritingwordpresscom.wordpress.com/about

https://www.amazon.com/Lex-Letters/e/B06W9K8Q6W

hallucinations

Once he saw my eyes

and left me blinded

by his look.

I told him jokingly I would be

his Brooklyn Baby from Montreal,

but he never listened to Lana

as closely as I always do

and

my boyfriend was singing on stage.

I’m too old to love him; I’m to cold to hold him;

I’m too sweet to know his bad-ass;

but he holds my feathers

and sees right through me.

transparent, he whistles, as I walk past him

then he holds the door open for me.

follows me to the sortie

and is gone

but he

watches me smoke

i thought he was gone,

as i stare at the stars

ignoring the chatter

of who wanted to know

how i shared my mind with the world.

i have no choice

i say, i’ll die if i don’t.

he waves from across the street

and i wondered if it was

my mind

hallucinations again

playing tricks on me.

pass the bourbon, i said,

once the dark became light,

serious, intent on getting so drunk

that i wouldn’t reflect

on the exact blue of his eyes

and why the specks

even mattered at all.