I write cursive on legal pads.


Added on by D.S. Hooker.

For her

Before saying that one thing
you always wanted to say to someone else
but hardly say to yourself,

know there is something inside
that is worthwhile,

that sometimes a friendship
is the closest you’ll ever get
but it’s better to laugh than not,

and, more often, a simple detail
makes her notice
that you notice her,

and when she does
remember that voice in your head which screams
“she deserves better than you”
isn’t a bastard,
just that part afraid of getting hurt again.

When she lays next to you, head on your chest,
listen to her breath
and know, in that moment, nothing else exists,

and if you’re unsure
of where your hands should go
let her guide you—

in each other you’ll find a missing part.

When she asks what you’re afraid of,
tell her—

tell her it’s fucking all this up
and being forgotten,

and when mistakes happen
don’t pretend they won’t linger and grow
into problems,

and know that words are no one’s strong suit
but even half a syllable weights more than silence.

When you see her slipping away,
don’t just reach out into the dark,

run and, if it’s a distance you can’t outpace,
keep going;
there’s no use returning to empty space.

When you find yourself alone
in a crowd, like times before,
listen to that beating within

and know everything that was worthwhile
is still alive.


Added on by D.S. Hooker.
With hands so precise
Prometheus granted his clay creatures
such form they knew to learn
and carve their own way.

With forethought most sincere
Prometheus stole them fire
to fear no darkness
and, once serendipitous, taste fine meals.

With understanding a form yet mastered, claws so coarse,
Prometheus was cragged from his grace;
punishment for believing his craft
was no less than the gods.

With hope so small it fluttered, Prometheus endured;
his clay learning what flame had taught
—never having wished to understand yet understood
and then, themselves, created.

Distraction; or, Mistress

Added on by D.S. Hooker.

Could, or would, or should
someone married to their work
be a polygamist, or, at least, an adulterer?

If, or as, or when
Distraction tempts me—as she often has—
puffing her cigarette that clouds more than vision,

I ponder, or long, or wish
to ask if she would stay a bit longer,
to let the smoke settle enough for me to see the muse

I think, I hope,
I know
she hides.

"If my words sought to speak..."

Added on by D.S. Hooker.

If my words sought to speak
what these last moments had said
such a vignette would, instead, be a memoir,

Yet for all which detail does describe,
detail possesses not a syllable
for watching someone dear die

Nor will death dare return their voice
to speak just once more—
knowing not whether death deals such a choice—

But if my words could reach them as before
my lips would utter no goodbyes,
just shout their name to the skies.