the end of a thing unfinished

where does this poem go?
jagged unalliterated edge of phrases
with no rhythm/ forces tongues
into offbeat dancers, hollerers
of visual falsehoods from poetry
beneath overly sharpened pencils,
unfinished as potential pregnancy/ uterine
wall without a sperm cell
to house burst into a cave of
cramped forgetfulness and choice.
Period.

-Stevie Ambroise

*i literally have no idea what this piece is about.
maybe it’s about myself. i have no idea where i or
this piece is going.

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poker chip

pushed peace towards you
like a poker chip,
counted the heart flutters between
your left brows liftoff
from baseline to peak, risk-
assessing my mouth-
opened gamble

then you, touching the chip, laughed
my crossed legs onto the ground,
too knocked by the hard shove of your
own amusement
to see my stand.

“that all you have left
to offer?”

but i had already taken myself,
and walked away.

-Stevie Ambroise

sheer tights

she wrote a song/
about death, death was sheer tights/
decorated with tears she pulled/
to birth holes on the sides/
of her calves. tights/
she still wore, wore, wore/
downtown to spin around in,/
among stares/
descending/

her

body.

.
.
.
.

songs about death.
to the harmony of the incessant
ringing in her ears,
the never-ending melody
that is the after-echo
of goodbyes.

-Stevie Ambroise

All Because I Thought You Looked Like Wisdom

You’re the latest love to turn me to a poem,
after time and trauma stoppered Understanding

too weak to lift rhythm
from the the waving hands of the word
“waist” (or was it waste), which
type of time tripped me up and caught me

like a baby, shrunken too small
by rebirth to comprehend prison
for the sake of precaution, as I watch words,
mobile, fall from the ceiling before I sleep?

they never land on me
i never taste them

for when I dream I chase
because I am a grown man
who is an elderly woman
who feels like a teenager

and you are a pickup
(or a dump) trucking along

and my heart is a filling moon-sliver of a
fingernail, drawing blood from bumper,
destined to never rip, even
as the force and direction of your speed
and the gravelly inertia of your “no”,
leaves me to flap in the wind,
skinned raw swaddled in tears

all because I thought you looked like wisdom.

-Stevie

4 until the end of days

Your wooden wind-chime laughter
showers the back of my neck, and
I am soothed.

You are the anticipation of warm summer rain
polluted with crashes of thick white lightning,
you are near-death experiences in the ocean, that
first breath of success when fingertip touch shore,
you are the embrace of all I love that reminds me
to fight to be alive, to fight against numbness,
to try one more time, again and again.

You make me stronger than my fear of that one day,
my essence, in it’s final journey from this body
to another realm and the start of another rich,
immersive experience, sweetened with the eventual
arrival of you.

3 until the end of days

this empty mug of sorrow
won’t let itself be poured
out, beneath the penetration of
sun rays thirsty for the evaporation
condensation precipitation
of tears and tea,
and the continuation of a life
at this state of Wait

unlike this mug,
my heart repeatedly breaks for you,
and sorrow swirls ooze out to
paint my aortic chambers with scenes
of nostrils filled to the brim
with white swirls of music notes
that elevate your body and coccoon
your brain from your mother father circled
around you, eyes shut to your slow
evanescence

my heart pounds out images
in abrupt dull tones,
broken kaleidoscope visions
of tiny outstretched hands weighed
down with absence,
tickling keys to burst the silence
from the air…

knuckles slash air to strike face,
kisses shared in a bed with no commitment

you smile, laugh, dance,
your eyebrows risen up to the sky,
two baby suns ready to break dawn…

tears fall from my eyes


at noon,
i take a spoon and tap it
against the side of the mug.
it rings like your laughter.