Even If

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Walk
there,

then
come
back
slowly
as
if
God
said, “What’s up?”.

Then,
if
you’re
up
for it,

lay down
there,
and
let your
focus
wind into mine,
as
I
figure
out
these buttons,
curves,
and
equations.

Let me
find
the seams,
as
I
wise
up to their
underhanded
plots
of keeping you
nestled
in
their grips.

Let me
also
drive
home
the
point
of being
haste,
and
if the
sun
will allow,
let
me take
some

time
to this madness.

So,
even
if
all of
this
never happens,
you’re
still
here,
staring,
and
wearing that
same
blue
dress.

M.C. Davis

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Shit, Damn, Motherfucker

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He
spoke through
jazzy,
smoke-filled
lips,
and
when
he whispered
shit,
damn,
motherfucker,
we
shook
into
place
like
grace notes
after
a
couple fighting
trills.

He
had a gansta
lean,
and
carried
the
rhythm
section
all
by
himself,
smoke
and
all.

He,
of course,
was one
long whole
note;
undivided,
and
like
a
smooth
cup of Joe
filled
to
the rim
with
A Minor
chords.

Shit,
damn,

motherfucker.

That’s
what we called
him.

M.C. Davis

A Dedication

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Maya
gave weight
to
loose verbs,
nouns,
pronouns,
and
those
lazy adjectives
for the
world
to
consume
piece
by
every
morsel;

and
she
spoke truth
to
poetry’s intent,
and
instilled
meaning into
what
we
do
as poets
on
the regular,
like
wind
does when
he’s
a
bit
moody.

She
gave way
to
the
nature of
a pen
navigating
charts,
graphs, and
tides
to
find
the
perfect Sailor
to
tread
those
rough seas.

Maya,
she threw us
a
few letters
at
a
time
for us
to
compose
like mathematics.
In her death,
we
are
still
left standing,
but
rising
as far
her
quiet
nature
stirred
us
to
do from
the
beginning.

Sleep well Maya.

Sleep well.

M.C. Davis