Fantasies on a winter's evening

In a town far too warm to

Be marked as December;

No footsteps in snow, or

Breath clouds in wind that

Whips across faces, through layers,

Into jackets and bones-

A prophesy foretold the reservation,

Written in your name.

It was spoken, called,

Repeated and then shouted-

No Escape.

Sometimes turning back,

Turning forward, disappearing-

Or letting it all run down the

Back of our minds, sliding from

Consciousness and body,

Transgressions drip away and

Leave us cleansed.

Something Sparkly

We are always missing

Some of the beauty we

Expected, or Did not expect

To find beneath the shadow of

Eyes, barrier of body and

Separation of mind; I once

Imagined that I drowned and

My body rested in the

Bottom. of. a. lake.

And the water became enchanted-

People flocked to the coastline,

Peered into the depths and found

Another world, third Utopian wonder uncovered

And discovered in individual solace,

Slowly revealed in flowing ripples.

I jest, if only in mild alternates to

reality. We all have, unable to speak truth for fear

That we might face it.

Sometimes silence rings better

Without the disruption of noise.

The rhythm taps out like solid sound-posts,

Or rain on a tin roof in the country.

We unintentionally draw

Maps in our minds of where

We'd like to go.

Writing how I can't forget you,

and your words will ring in my mind

whether it was last night or last week or last year;

You hold steady across fluid consciousness,

Inescapable- I pretend to erase you

And re-write time.

Contents on Continents

Release the spirit, release the Mind.

Freed and lifted to new maximums,

And fresh minimums; there is

Space to let hair grow freely, securely in the

Scalp as messy maps are roughly

Sketched somewhere in envelopes of thought.

The audacity of conjecture, assumptions, diction- the

Absolute insanity of possibility that she is

Far too into Living. Painting spaces with presence

Will someday be recognized as Ambition,

Perhaps matched and challenged by Another.

Where safety lies, fear of consequence accompanies

The heart; they are together in their grave of

Every boring life, with beginning middle and end

Just like the history book would have written it.

Calls for a challenge- perhaps demand a stand

For convictions, values, beliefs. Again, it is

Impossible contradictory feats that at some

Point changed the world. Perhaps ideals

Will never measure up to real world Standards.

But we can try.

Watch

The odd concept of

Future Husband and

Warehouse Nation

Whether we find ourselves

aware or not

I met a man on the other side of

Nowhere and never thought he'd

Be the future husband to my

Future bride-self

Divorcing virgin history,

Innocent past and present

All a part of what once was and

What is now lost;

Far before the social construct-

No knots eternally tied.

Nowhere near the dreams

Or pictures painted,

But just as alive as

You; let it soak up like

Water into pores of sponges.

Put make-up on

And take it off.

Although it is a mask and

Fanciful enjoyment,

There come limitations and

Expectations;

Tribute to femininity

And independence.

Contradictory characteristics

Build and conflict,

Coincide and exist.

While traveling.. in every direction,

I am not one or the other, but both

And all the time there is a breath

Of each, a stride and swagger, a

Stream that leads to the river

And ends in a vast Lake or Ocean.

I'll watch old men in coffee shops

And boys of youth as well;

Their flannel shirts and brown attire

Never get old-

Gestures, words, postures

evolve with time.

Use your hands to tell a story-

To hold a Conversation.

I-N-T-E-Let Him Drink.

The health that results from water

Drawn from the endless well is anything but

Superficial. Buckets cranked down on rope

Fed through one of man's

Great inventions, the pulley, dips

Wooden lips to submerge below liquid

Levels. Filling crevices, quenching

Thirst of empty spaces, then

Drawn up by strength of human

Energy, PULLING PULLING!

-Significant means of Sustenance-

Despite every effort, man is

Infinitely bound by his animal self,

His physical self he cannot divorce

(Despite his efforts to do so).

He bends to take a drink.

Time Come, and Gone.

I often dread the weight of week beginnings,

As though I sign my life away with each

Approaching Monday.

Sacrificial soul, lost to weekend warriors who

Live only when time is free.

American work week, work ethic, work dream.

Sometimes we are human, sometimes

Weeks bring out the weakness and

Months fold into Monotonous collections;

Conditions unfold and pass by with the

Tick of the clock.

Building a Device

I could write a million attempted Conversations

To remember where I've been-

But what's the practicality in that?

Let's build electronic recorders and save

Every spoken, voiced, pitched, broken word

Saved for reviewing in back rooms, when age has

Taken our hands- we'll hold parties for listening to

Concerts attended forty years ago, some moment

That had little impact, yet is preserved.

What will you listen for anyway?

Because I Wanted to.

I have a pile of sweaters that

Rarely find use anymore.

Turquoise chest bulges with

Collections of discarded clothing;

They will find their use, even if

It's only for peace of mind in times

When I fear the winter.

----------------

Some evenings we fold ourselves in

And out again, across our

Canvas of skin.

----------------

Someone wrote the greatest love poem

You ever read; (S)he sold the recycled lines

And constructed the exhilarations, probably

Tapped out on an ancient type-writer.

Some evenings you can hear her whisper,

"Come to me"

And through the rain and traffic noise she

Anticipates the response.

The Light of Wonderland

Some days it is necessary to Wonder

Where the Dark Side of Wonderland came from.

Like Origins could Explain it- Explain it to me!

The announcer booms "Welcome, join me!

I have been waiting for you, my dearest friend!"

The cold that came upon Entering rapidly

Gripped my bones, shook me, whispered
"Leave, don't ask questions, he Lied!"

My head lulls back, I feel the pressure on

My weak chest- and stand-determinedly, I start a fire.

"Your insides- you see, they are quite normal!

Can't you see from up here, the fire in your belly?"

What fire- I put it here! Give me credit, my fire, I built

That fire in piles of wet Autumn leaves!

"No, it was always here- I've been watching it

For years. Warm yourself, my dearest friend!"

Disbelieving, I trudge to the heart of the matter-

It beats rhythmically, it pumps, its strength eminated from

MY CORE.

"See that beautiful thing there, don't be deceived. Sometimes

It shows Signs of Weakness. Maybe Only I can see."

The heart- the Heart is Strong. It is the center, the

Bottom, the driver, the survivor! What does this have

to do with the Darkness of Wonderland?

I chased up the spine, to the roots of neural wanderings.

"Precious system, precious Minds! How beautiful-
BEAUTIFUL! Look at the sunrise, like Northern lights!"

And it was so, just like Alaska in Summer; Like the

Brightest days on beaches, like the sun, like the

Warmth of the fire! "

But what about the infamous 'Dark Side'?

"I was wondering why you sought the light; There

Is never Darkness here. NeveR. What were you looking for?"

I sit and bask in the light- I drink it up-

I cup pools of it into my hands, I bathe in it;

What would the world do if it knew- I drink it!

I memorize it- I put it Secretly into pockets to

Be treasured, saved, Remembered. I write it into

Stories, capture it, Share it- Give it.

"It's not just from this place. Everything Convenes

Here. Welcome to your Wonderland."

What valleys of Relief, of Joy, of

Shock- This light, I'm Blinded!

A body package, a wisdom warrior-

A vessel for transportation, it cradles my

Wonderland.

If Only I could capture the birds and

Hold Conversations with them.

The Changing Game

I enter the bathroom stall

Wearing fake chucks and skinny jeans;

I am the equal, before

The transformation.

Also, I am invisible.

Remove the t-shirt, the skin-tight jeans;

Remove the things that are 'me.'

All small remainders tamed

Away, broken down; I find my human,

Woman form. Naked in the

Union bathroom.

I decorate, ensconce this figure with

Fashions unfamiliar. Layers of

Respect Me Pants, a name tag

For good measure. Labels,

Labels for fine Individuals!

I exit the bathroom stall

Near a presentable authoritative image.

One more layer, a manipulation of the

Face; the Face! Before I take my role.

Requirements for costume, I exit

And clown in Business Casual;

We're actors, we're acting! I swear

This isn't it! You have yet to Meet me

Behind the suit jacket!

The world conceives collared clothing,

Discerning the demeanor of the wearer;

My presence felt, I take to the stage

And assume employee role.

[Underneath I am Naked Woman,

I am Warrior Woman, I am Human-

I am Discovered, Beauty, Entirety;

Underneath the core awaits you, and Me.

You'll know me best without

External impediments, without these

Costumes- Costumes! Each day we

Dress, undress, put on and take off

The mask. But do not forfeit your confidence:

Some days there are unveilings

In Union bathrooms. ]

Violate Me

Some days I harbor hate for

Common objects. They didn't violate

Me but I

Still hate them.

The rug on my floor reminds me, the

Sweater I wear, that picture frame

That keeps staring

And sometimes

I want to throw it all

Away; what would I be

Without them?

Give it Words, Don't Give it Words.

If it comes out in complications and

Descriptions, then we're more than likely

Losing part of ourselves along the way.

Again there are few accomplishments

And I wait for sunrises and a little light

To lift me up from these sheets.

Are we destined to draw on the wells

Of other's imaginations, as we ponder

How deep are they and how long will this last.

I dropped pennies into the bucket before

Lowering it down to the water's surface;

Rings rippled in all directions, copper faces

Trip into a circular abyss, sink, vanish.

It dropped into my stomach, it was swallowed

Whole, I have consumed it all. What is streaming

From my eyes and why is copper running down

White cheeks and where did the bucket go.

Exhaustions, weight of waking in the morning only to

Feeling the lack of sunshine on my face- my skin

Is thinning, my hair is brittle- cracking Bones and

I'm losing all the days as they

Go by with GREAT notice and I mourn them

Each morning, before they're even lived.

But it is not how it seems and just like those

Spiders written around the margins they

Are imagined and I am imagining all the people

Laughing; so far removed. Where do you spend

Your evenings, how much pacing do you do-

Do you remember everything you want to?

Where is the world of travels and of mystery-

How does one get from there to here- or here to there.

And the phone calls are less frequent, never answered,

Lost in connection.

Why do you seem so far away and what are you

Doing studying the same things as me?

Maybe I'll throw rocks at all the reasons I'm not

Going back- what's back there, where's your dog-

Will it be cold- I won't be there.

All the Starbucks are lined with happy cups.

How can cups be so happy? Colors and quotes

And sleeves to keep hands from the burning

Hot liquid that doesn't coat the stomach enough to

Keep it from hurting. Can you send me a cup of your

Words, a collection of the conversations we could have

If I had a reason to see you.

And why does everyone go to Spain anyway?

For all the dollar signs its a shock you

Took it seriously, for once- Get out of my

Conversation. I said goodnight goodbye.

I have it all, it's in my pocket actually- small

Secrets for filling spaces where otherwise it all

Leaks out; Pour the contents on the floor and

I think I've just realized why- wait

What were you words oh screw goodbye.

I don't stand on rooftops anymore and hope

That cats won't show up and scare the shit out of me.

I won't be sliding off the roof where some crazy

Girl takes showers in the trees with a watering can.

Is that a rocket-ship or a drying rack? Your are the

Craziest Columbian I've ever met.

The map won't even stay on the wall, and all the

Tea is ruined- all of it. What kind of summer was

That; Can we have some purpose next time?

More occupations, less occupations, more

Tolstoy, less Tolstoy- Fucking Russians-

Run away from them, they'll knife you and

Pretend to be poor and pathetic and cry

And Scare the shit out of you and maybe even

Steal your bike if you don't watch out.

I don't think that really but maybe if she

Had the Bloody chance.

Also the Polish; go away go away

And find somewhere else to be Selfish.

I like to think about plastic plates shaped like

Fish and I think I remember a Long-John Silver

Somewhere along the way when Daddy was out of

Town; Fishsticks I HATED Fish sticks because they

Tasted like dry Rancid cardboard and Because

He wasn't there. Why did we always eat salads, every

Night like a ritual; Like we'd die of we didn't!

And all the tomatoes- and rags they stole the rags

And put stains on them I'll kill them.

Are you obsessive compulsive? Or just a little

Obsessed with being compulsive. It hast to be

Perfect why does it have to be perfect; I have shaking hands

Sometimes and I used to have this idea that there

Was some perfect Puzzle fit to all the questions in the book

About what the rest of your life is supposed to be like-

Let's laugh about that, please. It's anything but perfect and

I can't make it perfect and maybe that's why it kills me,

All of it kills me- Why can't I make it be what I want it to be.

And so I procrastinate, and listen to songs about

Peppermint Patty; talk about a tragic character. I'm sorry

Charlie Brown you lost big time. Let's not have Thanksgiving

Like your movies- you are depressing. Thanks.

It accomplishes nothing, and yet it accomplishes- wait yea,

Nothing. Nothing Stands with me in the empty room and

Turns to me; He says fill it, make it yours, put your words

All over this place and splatter the walls with the Most
Saturated emotions, the ones that make lumps in throats

And make you say things you didn't know existed- Where

Did this come from, it's not the fucking Spiders I told you and

What kind of conversation did that wall listen to; was it listening?

Pour another and another and open the door, close the

Door it squeaks but you know there's nothing in the corners,

No g-d-damn stink, no g-d-damn crazy people.

And none of it makes any sense to g-d-damn normal people,

Wherever they're hiding and judging and wondering what we

Do in our free time; Actually nobody paid attention anyway and

While I was melting in the storms they almost forgot to leave

A note- a Lousy note- on the door to say goodbye or hello or

Where are going? I have a box of daydreams I dip into now and then

And wonder what the hell the political philosophers were

Thinking when they sat down to write a book about whatever

They think they were writing about. Sometimes I just want

To sleep for days, climb into the base of mountains, make igloos,

Make tree forts and sleep in them- Let's sleep somewhere different but

It won't make a difference or fix anything or explain why- WHY.

Why don't you SLEEP every night, what is in the brain that keeps

You awake anyway- what is it what is it let's chase it, play pin the tail

On the Fucking donkey and see if we win the Prize; five cent

Gum that gets stuck in your teeth and requires dental attention-
Some prize. If you could have a night of simple solid sleep, what would

You not be dreaming about?

Where does the ink run out; where does the rain smudge all

The meaning away- where did that week in the summer go when
I sat by the - ocean- wait shit it was interrupted by.... by this and

That and all the driving and another human being I never should have

Called but who the Fuck would you have called anyway. I'm one

Human being not talking to another or talking to

Everyone all at once; who would you pick up the phone and

Call just because it felt like it was time to make amends or

Something and then you say stupid things and fall apart

From the last two months of pretending Everything is All right;

It's the Beatles in your brain that song that makes you feel

Like you're in the Strawberry Fields; Set up a tent and wait

For the Winter to come- what happens to central park in Winter?

And what are all the things tumbling tumbling that Fake Spring, it was

A Break? A brother and a walled off friend and two grandparents

So Italian it whispered from their pores. What? Yea, it did.

What does Mercy mean anyway? And why haven't we read every

Single sacred book, man-written book, truth telling book, God GIVEN

BooK as though it were the most important thing to Know? Why

Do you stick to your DOGMA I

WILL shove it down your throat and turn you the other way. Goodbye

Hello what is your obsession with Memory it's here, it's there it's F
a

LLin

G down

this Page and pooling at the bottom for later retrieval.

Oh shit, Hello- what wait you have a heart I have one

Too let's watch them pump blood together for a moment;

Some day I'll own a studio with white walls and easels and

Paints of EVERY color and places for typewriting, and infinite

Fresh Flowers for vases from All over the world and I'll

Make pretty things to fill the rest of our days, whoever it

Is shared with. Don't mess up your first- anything, don't mess

Up this especially, Don't Mess- don't miss, don't sstop looking and

Why do you keep looking? You don't have enough years, you have

Too many years, you're pacing again stop it.

Some day I'll build a paper boat and watch it

Float away with the tide.

Forecasts

Some mornings even

predictions of

daily forecasts are

impossible.

Or maybe it can be

accredited to our

8am laziness, sleep

fresh in our skin.

We turn to satellites

floating above our field

of vision; mechanics my

eyes have yet to see.

Remote contraptions and

technologies guide our

hands like children through

infinite words and information.

The same means deliver

our intergalactic emotions;

from one screen to another,

one state to another.

Some mornings checking the

weather should be simple;

I stuck my hand out the

window and felt rain.

Some mornings targeted

emotions should be simple;

I held conversations that took

little effort or breath.

A 'new' means of gathering

information? Somehow

we're all stuck on wrong pages,

though modes are ever advanced.

Red is such a nervous color.

Like the hidden motivation of McDonalds;

eat your beef and be gone.

Sleeping Arms

Shaking hands, dead tingling of extremities;

how often the blood refuses to flow from shoulder

to hand, unnatural. In the mornings, when arms are dead,

or fake dead, or just pretending, she shrugs while trapped in bed;

conversations at the ceiling say good morning, how

funny- let's laugh. What if she loses

them for a day, free to dangle awkwardly

from her body, like imposed weights across

shoulders, heavy with gravity. Arms follow

the spin of the earth, the pace of her stride,

the distance of her wandering.

Flop-flip-floap-tingle twingle.

Are your arms ok?

Stomach of Diamonds.

When we go to heaven, we won't talk about the yesterdays

of everyday life. There will be no time to measure

how long we've been waiting

or not waiting.

When we go to heaven, there will be pumpkin pies and

jugs of apple cider for the drinking, and when

we celebrate commercialized holidays,

we won't feel scammed anymore.

And all the pumpkins of the world will be carved

into perfect faces, perfect candles to fill their bases

with lighters that won't burn thumbs;

they will drop and smash on command.

When we go to heaven, there will be no awful truths

that can not be quickly concluded. And comprehension

of foreign languages will come like native tongues,

as though they were our own.

When we go to heaven, everyone will understand

our essence; excuses and silly words no longer

necessary when speaking to professors pretending

to be monks- or 'normal' people.

When we go to heaven, we wont' have to

dig up boxes we buried to hold memories

we hoped to forget; they were always the

crown jewels in our stash of treasures.

Impending Obligations

Tracing previous paths, retracing them

Again each week.

Another line to walk on.

The piles of lists make me queasy,

But I write them anyway.

Incomplete.

Let's cut out paper circles

And dance around the fires

We create with them.

Keep us warm, oh great

sacrifice of confettied writing.

We burn the evidence of our

Attempts to extrapolate

the trappings of

our minds.

Memories arise and

Dicipate as we discredit

Previous encounters.

Melting in tandem with

Commemoration of the

Bodies we knew, of the

Conversations that reverberate

In our subconscious; voices in

Impending situations.

Audible footsteps approach;

The light- a flickered blur of surroundings.

Then smash of dark and lonely;

Cracking knees and ankles-

An addition to the continuation,

As moments add upon an infrastructure

That struck inexorably.

Presence echoes and overcomes the

Precedence of burdened stride.

Eyes daft, a lack of speculation.

Pursuit of fancy;

Words entangle in common conversation.

Sincere effort to emancipate

The confines, unavoidable

External conjectures.

Footsteps mirror each other;

Soles cross paths in unison

For a time.

Anticipated wave of

Inertia with the encounter of

Another.

Modes of

Transportation on a Sunday

As we walk around the margins

Of this place.

Feel the rain drip

Down foreheads, down

Bare skin and stomachs

To our feet.

Chaos

From the door step I

watched and waited for

a sign of recognition.

Your face is blank,

my words are ammunition

and we wait to

aim and fire.

I keep on pacing between

the lines and the states

and all the spaces I have

attended; all the same places

we've been and remembered

in conversation.

I felt your arm, heavy across

my shoulders- and gasped;

it could be the last

time your eyes see

mine for

a while.

We spent hours in a coffee shop

that charges too much, just

so we could say a few words. Just

so we could remember what

it was we came together for

in the first place.

The rain of those months, the single

spaces we occupied and spread ourselves

across and within; the days I found

out I could not speak for all the

reasons I couldn't say anything worth

mentioning. And for a while we just

sat and stared at the beginnings:

a labyrinth and the wild, dreams we

found in common.

I traced the outline of my mind

along the rim of the oversized

coffee cup, an attempt to hide

the things I cannot swallow;

this sweet caffeinated drink tastes

like the lump that erupts in my throat.

And you're still leaving because I

said goodbye, because I can't wrap my

mind around the idea. Because I lose

you in the distance and the change

in your appearance. Because I don't

know who stands before me,

or what it signifies.

Because I'm still searching,

and willing that we'll find our

lives on the opposite sides

of the world.

It felt like rain was coming and

then it came and the sky opened up

above us and it all came down upon

our heads. You were driving and I was

hunting for objects to fill this space because

I couldn't use the paints you bought

me and I couldn't make my mind get

past the hundreds of pages of readings.

And I didn't answer the phone. I couldn't

answer because it was you and what you

want is more than I want even though

some days you say it's nothing.

The rainy Tuesday evenings come,

and I spend them

laughing over new

and old beginnings.

It is a new destination for

night time hikes and my body

rests in a different place again.

The rain pelts the roof of the building;

on top of my hill I watch the cars

pass by, headlights like souls floating

through the night to some unknown

destination. Water splashes, constant

splashes against rubber tires worn from

pacing my street. My window is perfect

for watching lives drive past, my

hill is made of rooms that are only

mine. I can not share it with you;

the bed was made for one and my name

is on it. And the cars drive by just

for me.

And it rains and

rains and

rains wherever I

move to. Maybe

some day I can move

to a place with less rain;

or at least a place

with real snow.

And a winter that

doesn't pretend to

have mental diseases

that are only applicable to the

human mind.

It's chaos either way.

Upon them we bestow

What is entrusted in our hands

when you shake the magic eight ball

and your vanity took you so high,

above us

and I

just know,

and I am waiting

for you to fall

from your pedestal.

America takes mouthfulls

of undigestable cotton balls,

steel tracks, tobacco

and feigns its growth.

Taste the sweetness

of Cuban sugar, communist funded cigars

the devils of capitalism.

Its stomach grows, hungry

for more of the liquid and solid

golds produced by the theoretical

currencies we impose.

Coffee grounds and barrels of oil,

must have it all for wall street dreams.

China feed our plastics,

make me Christmas in a box

and wrap it in ribbons from machines

watched by children,

their hands small enough to hold

and be chopped away.

Bitter droves of hungry

stay at home and miss their

pay, can't feed the mouths

wide open before them.

Bitter droves of the margins

stand wide-eyed at the

pockets of the businessman

with three new cars and a vacation home.

The bread wasn't enough, the

roof of sustenance skyrocketed,

the bank took all the money in

Argentina. We watch you default on your

loans- you owe us, you owe the world

a neoliberal prophecy we have proposed.

The beggar and the brand of

toxic shit in a can, stand back

and watch us chug our coke

and buy our drug.

Watch the waves of ignorance as

the immigrant dies of dehydration

with lone long coyotes waiting to

take them down.

Taste the sweat of the brow of the

African in constant war; they

rape and pillage unlike any

textbook report.

Give your blood, give your fire

for the America we inspire.

Our Consensus shows that yes we

are relentless, take our word for it

you will triumph in free-world

wonders with development.

Where is the remorse?

Have we lost our compassion?

And all the time we're waiting

for the answer.

Sunday in Motion

She was five years old,

a special Easter Sunday when

she danced in the yard

without the slightest inhibitions

she would later refine. She

wore the dress her grandmother

made by hand;

Dr. Quinn and violin, the girl

she was meant to be fit squirming

and rebellious into ruffled socks and

shiny black shoes. She shrugged at

the patterns and folds

of a garment overbaring of her

five year old demeanor.

Six year hopes and a small

gold heart on a chain, she was not

yet entrusted with the fate

of her dreams. Songs of

symphonies or garage can sounds

intrigue a curiosity to forever

expand.

Bombs on Houses

Drizzle Dazzle-

Sunshine on Strike.

Taste the drips

and drops that fell

on yesterday.

Scribble Squabble-

Ink out the Well.

Blink through the

panes and drains in

windows left open.

Brittle Battle-

Bones gone Mad.

Skate on slabs

of granite in houses

you never had.

Measured Beat

It falls together

and apart with

each sunrise.

In the morning the

world tastes like

last nights used

up lines, reservations

made so long ago;

not a soul can seem to

remember.

Yet a ton

is taken off

our spines.

Dream like the

drum is at your

door and your heart

begins to match its beat.

Dream like every step you

take is one beat closer to

a million.

One million heart-beats

per human life

granted, not more.

Measure life, measure dreams,

measure nights of unslept sleep.

Undone sheets, books

strewn across the floor.

Evidence of yesterday's

enforcement of rule.

They pile and collect;

consume our consciousness.

Embody and contain

truths we have come to

abhor.

Burn

Shivering.

As middle of winter

drudges through

snow and ice.

The sound in my mind

gets bigger.

The sound from my body

screams louder.

The sound you were making

doesn't reach me anymore.

We wrap ourselves

around a million

things because we

should.

Confusing expectation

with desire,

can we ever

see the sun?

Anxiety ensues.

You walk

so slowly in the middle

of the bustle, eyes cast

down. What takes you

from the action and activity

of life?

We burn

so hard for things

we never loved.

I burn for things so

inevitable. Things

written thousands

upon thousands of

years ago.

What was intentionally

written in

the book?

We burn on;

the full time

job, we each must

pay our due.

http://newcastlemale.deviantart.com/art/smoke-Trails-3-92834150

I Was Sailing [in a boat with a hole]

We take the waves

up and down, back

and forth.

But I

found you somewhere

in the chaos.

What coincidences

change lives

like this?

I cannot taste

the earlier days

anymore. They

are forever lost

to me.

Unattainable,

and slightly detrimental to

our health.

http://vanerich.deviantart.com/art/Sail-136799723

What is this.

I don't care if

the rest of the world

can't see it

in you.

I do. And I ignite

up the light and carry it

across waters and

across maps on which

I am standing. I am

standing on the map

for another temporary

time but I actually

am not some fancy

moment of wish, some

thought only half articulated;

I spoke in full conversations

and melting the fortifications,

I tasted what it is to be that word

that we are all seeking.

I am sticking

and shuffling;

I am more than the

passing and fading

light upon the water.

I am the lighthouse

a moment;

the lighthouse from which there

emminates a droning drowning

sound that keeps the world from sleep

and from passing without notice.

The beacon brings

us back to our preferred

reality.

I present you all that

belongs to you. That which

Is you.

Only exaggerating parts of

you; you are it all.

And without the allusion

of material,

I am you.

The leaves begin to

shift to shades

of yellow.

Minds yet are determined

to keep their pace.

Breathe

Inventive in our own way

we are intent on producing

some small proof

of our success.

We may never attain

what we had hoped to.

Who stands before me?

Below the windmill,

there sits the shadow

of the person

you once were.

The shafts spin rhythmically,

as they have done

for hundreds of years.

The field is empty. Our

stomaches are empty.

Breathe to take in

some substance to

fill the spaces.

Skin

Take a new place in with

new time. We could be

anywhere with

anyone, but you

chose to be

here.

Or there. And

there is so far

away from my

here.

Begin to shed the

skin that came in layers

and slowly unravels

cell by cell,

color sometimes lost

and left behind.

I should have taken

our picture, I should

have recorded it so

that we could remember.

I don't know how

I could possibly forget.

How we could walk

away like it is fall

and we are leaves on trees.

I will fall head first

into the ground.

Where are you?

I Spoke Your Name

I see your essence in the

collections of photographs.

Timing is unconsequential

when it comes down to

daily survival- and

multiple attractions.

Among the clutters we may

find gold.

Things We Might Dismantle

The raindrops in the foreground

often block out the background.

It rained that night, and in the

morning the gravel was wet.

I walked barefoot anyway

to the car I hadn't driven

in a month.

They came from nowhere

and while I curled into

a ball in my bed

I could not hold it anymore.

What weighty burdens

we often bear.

I could write you in the evening

after dusk brought color and then

final darkness to my night.

Or in the afternoon on my parents

painted porch, on the swing that

doesn't sit perfectly strainght.

What conditional sacrafices we have

deterined for ourselves.

Great waves of the dismal ends,

the infinite universe.

Is it me, or who you think I am?

How many times we build up

and up, towards our skies.

Can we sit on your couch and laugh

about how inconsistant we find

our lives?

You cannot come to sit with me

though I will save a seat for you anyway.

Accepting Haircuts

The roots give way to

eventual life cycles;

strength

of months

defeated.

Somewhere in the

process of maintaining

some wind-blown

daily pattern, or

lack of,

one must give way

and let go.

Shedding it like

discarded skin

upon which

imprinted feats

forever lie-

come and say goodbye.

I found someone

to shed the locks of

days long-lived, in sun-streaked

and dead-end strands

that I carried

like a badge.

Eleven dollars

and conversations of

Bolivia- how this

town is a positive;

the negatives

yet light

in my shoes.

I didn't know

it would fall so smoothly;

what worlds have

been removed.

The days of

the river remain.

We don't have

rings like

trees to

reveal our

age.

There is little difference

between here

and there;

are you the same

everywhere?

Refusing Haircuts

The length- never meant to be a sign-

is slowly becoming some definite

Tangible measure

of success.

Can you tell me where

I might find someone to

help me shed the locks of

days long-lived, in sun-streaked

and dead-end strands

that I carry

like a badge?

I will not lose them

yet, they will stay

connected to me

and my mind and I

will continue to celebrate my

greatest survival successes.

It is definite that

one year ago I had but

inches of such a substance;

Liquid gold between my fingers-

I would save it in bottles

if people wouldn't call

insanity.

The faces of sanity have

come to take you with them.

What uniquely normal,

plane-jane simple

eyes and nose-

smile that says

follow me, follow me.

Come down to my side

of town and see what has

been built.

Without recognition,

an empire appeared-

quietly,

again.

I am standing upon a

house with a slanted roof,

one that meets the wall,

just above my head and

when I sleep I feel it

holding up the walls of

this well-attended

space.

The scent of decaying pine needles reaches us

and there is no denying the existence

of home.

How might we become

[super]human, as we

chance our soul with

the passing of time.

Your past life arches

upon your back,

scrutinizing over your shoulder-

it wills the threads

to break. Or to be whole.

Take leave when nessecary

and wait not for the applause.

than we ever have before...

What small changes have come, in so short a span of time;
I am forever pacing, and finally embracing all
That I wanted to forget.
It surprises me each day just how completely
Your human condition is reflected
In your constant desire for air-conditioning-
Like man's greatest tragedy could be summed up
In the summer heat, a heat that is
Inescapable.
And there comes a tightness in my chest
Like a stiff reminder that each day breaks new
And comes with sun or rain, comes work and
Purpose. A reason for making each part
Of yourself unreachable as though to protect
A heart from some small pain or frustration.
I am pacing again, like it will be forever,
Making use of the lines in the hardwood floors or
Rapping upon unopened doors and shaking
My fist at the conscious thought I so
Desperately work to dismiss.

We are forgetting the greatest parts of
Our insides; they are strewn across the floors
Of our histories and soon nothing will be left
For future pretenses and obligations.
I am reminded once again that
The birds flew higher than we ever have before;
Upon first being released into this world,
They took to the skies unbound
And celebrated the vast open spaces we still
Cannot reach on our own.
Some days we reach where birds have gone,
But only by merit of the dedication of others.
Who has set you free in your own surroundings?

We say goodbye in our own way

The imprint of buildings against the skyline imprinted themselves in my retinas. Our familiar old Midwestern backdrop clings to my skin like raindrops in a downpour- evaporating from my conscience eventually. I walk across the street and stand for a moment, as though there is a message I was meant to receive on this particular night, in this exact location. Somewhere it was written that I would return to this place, just to feel it all slide away for one last time. I've been running from some mysterious monster that perhaps was created upon thoughts that weren't quite true. The clouds take me into their swirls, colors of sunset- pinks and orange- begin to fill the blue-gray expanse overhead. Once again I take a breath and then turn around and walk back to my car. My mind races back again, to the days in which we were together. How I can't believe any of it, and it wasn't a lie because there are pictures and proof. I sometimes wished there wouldn't be proof of the hundreds of nights I sat and wondered where you were and what you were finding for yourself out there.

I decided that I would take on each new bend in the road, that I would taste the air of a hundred shores and remember them all. But this place, this place it drives me insane. You stood before me not an hour ago, eyes focused and available for me to jump into for a moment. Once again I tasted the nights sitting in your yard, or watching some pointless movie neither of us cared about. Somehow I managed to erase a lot of this, but I came here to not erase it anymore. I came to see it again, and walk away from it for the final time. Your absolute determination awes me each time, yet I know you are gone for good. Once every six months and you quickly lose my mind and heart. The truth is I left it all many months ago, left you completely, but somehow it was the one last assurance that I needed. I reached up to turn on the radio, only to find the cd we used to listen to on long drives together. Years, years ago. Like all the things I ever cared about were chasing me. My hand reacted without hesitation, silencing the sound as quickly as it had begun. Alone, I sat and watched the Midwestern sky seemingly be smeared by the hands of some great giant mixing watercolors. Some sweet sense of serenity took over and I let my head fall back against the seat, my bangs brushing across my forehead like always. I wondered what everyone else saw when they watched me shrug and walk away again.

Milano

The evening comes, and I think of you.
And the morning, and the afternoon, and the night- for
I shared it all with you.

I feel your absence in the bleached asphalt,
My feet treading over spaces alone and
I feel your absence in the cloudless sky-
You are not here to see it with me.
I feel your absence in every meal;
I prepare them alone with little thought
And I feel your absence in the sheets
Of night, which had become our haven.

My heart opens and blossoms, my heart
Expands and moves like the shifting
Tides and my heart asks me questions
That I must answer with utmost honesty.
My heart beckons and I follow without
Hesitation. Yet where it often leads
I find I am alone and wandering.
I am wandering and wondering whether
It will ever settle down, if there
Is a place I might feel safely at home.

My heart moves forward, emanating all emotion
And my heart comprehends the hollow wood that
I encounter along the road. I walk across
This world and feel the stretching of dusty
Wings; They encompass the span of the backroads
And hidden places where I am sure to
Find what.
Find what and then fly.

The Follies of a Traveling Mind

Tides will flow up the beach, down the beach
Into your [sub]conscious wanderings
As I try to grasp a piece of the pages
I once wrote, about myself, and in
Another land while I waited to learn the truth.
We take our time in recognizing the destructive
Realities of distance; we drift into ourselves.
I am sitting and waiting, and you are saying
You have been waiting, you have been thinking
This whole time and even
Somehow after retraction of the determined avoidance
We might stand a moment in the streets and see
Some other side of ourselves, yet to be revealed.
I pass a troubled glance into your eyes;
It is a test and I blush at the thought;
What have we come upon in our deliberate aimless wanderings-
We truly are the restless and the
Ever unsettled travelers of this world.

I am dancing in the night upon freshly paved
Streets and shouting like it's a new year and
A new revolution; we live like we want to.
And you are wading through third world wonders,
Counting the possible ways in which you might
Find humor in our circular stepping dances
Or what moment might be right to do something
About what is in your heart.
I kiss the petals of roses and send them
In bottles across oceans to the
Other side of nowhere, in a river where you
Might find them and know that I am
Wandering our homeland in search of something
I found a few weeks ago. (And yet I search)
I was blind to the ways in which we
Might actualize ourselves and materialize
Here where we are from and there we might
Have meetings in secret under roofs you
Built with your hands and our feet have touched
The same soils a thousand of thousand miles away.
Because we have passed through the same space
At the same times, because the world spun at
Exactly the right angle and you followed
Your path, and I followed mine, we
Somehow met halfway, in the middle, somewhere
We never expected.

There is never enough time-
All we have is time.

As if I could capture the smallest piece
Of that memory and save it for later,
Only measures of time between where we were
And where we are going;
There is greatness to be discovered.

Bienvenidos

A year spent waiting,
and here you are with the greatest
means of living.


I've lost the ability to
understand what you're trying
to tell me and I can't
hold my breath for the
day when things make sense.

Some things will never make sense.

Dream dreams that are bigger than
any space you've occupied before.

Tapestry Traveler

We have four days left and the
tide is coming in.
The clank of glass in the bar
signifies the end of the night,
and cheers to you I'm headed
down the same road from which I came.



Where have you been for
four weeks and a day and why
are you still waiting to hear
me on the other end.
The phone calls from nowhere
probably came more frequently
than you'd like to think.
The country code came louder in my
ears and the drone of the receiver
never gave me your voice; it is empty noise.
Instead I heard your ghost and
hurt for words you hadn't thought to say.

Someone whispered in my ear and reminded me
that there are a thousand kinds of energy
and I'm only walking in one line.
The tight-rope walking and the soft
spoken sentences make etchings in our minds,
like something solid,
and I take them with me like the scratch
and rhythmic types of mysterious noises
will hold me over 'til morning.
I won't sleep and I won't speak
until the morning
because the wind blows in the walls,
out of the walls
of the old Spanish Hacienda.
Where were you the night I fell upon
silence and gave up my words.
When I couldn't reach you even
if I screamed.
And my teeth chattered in the night
as I tasted the chill of humid frost.
I was shaking and waking and hating
that I couldn't speak to you.
I couldn't have said it all in
a letter that I never sent.
I couldn't have said it all in
a phone call from close to home.
I couldn't have told you
that the way we tasted the world
was like celebrating christmas in June.


But someone whispered in my ear
and I whispered back:
is that God?
And no one answered.
I whispered and it sounded like
the breeze through the plants
and I felt it like a breath
across my neck. For a moment
I felt your hand across my back
and I knew I was still far away.
I heard the whisper in my ear,
I swear I did. I think he was
just asking who I was worshiping
and I answered without regret:
no one. Who are you?

The body of water that has inhabited my
life at all times has come to follow me
and remind me of its strength. I am laughing
because it is so big and rolling there,
but it is so small and unassuming here.
It is small and I am home and the river was
the hum and drum of the world and I have been
pretending that my river and my lake are not the
same kind of world. I have been pretending that
we cannot feel a thing, because a man built it here
in my yard.
The river held me in the night and especially in
the evening when it enveloped me like
a tight gripping sweater. It filled the silence,
always, and told me to listen close.
What happens when you listen to the river,
yaku of the sacha of Ecuador.

Who are you, who are you
my living sacha runa?

We are Lost in our own Skin

It was as though we thought we could
build the greatest architectural achievement
and stand below it with bellies filled
and voices echoing from our throats to the
ends of what we have built,
but we opened our eyes and the the trellises
and particulars, the manicured square inches
of our creation have been erased as though
they were never there at all.

We searched in the dead of night, we searched
in countries unknown, feeling the call of
some other voice
urging us on to the next space, pulling
at our shirtsleeves, to the next
world, the next time we might catch a
glimpse
of the tower we once knew; we had created it
ourselves.

And though we are searching and
waiting and making it all out
to be alright, we cannot pretend;
the searching and the waiting and the
desperate instinct to rebuild slowly
decline, drift away, spread out
and dissipate.
How we thought that would never be the case,
we would always be searching for the same place,
the same masterpiece, the same creations-
how we were holding onto the walls in our own
dizzying sickness, our own dreams of what
it meant to be alive
-as the drifting from these dreams slowly brought
bile to our stomachs and our mouths.
It doesn't taste like, feel like, look like, smell like,
even seem like we thought it would.
The building rises in our collective conscience;
we know it will never be defeated.

Perhaps it is true that will will never
find the creation. Perhaps we have
lost the ability.
We must face the unsettling truth:
We are lost in our own skin.














http://rubertu.deviantart.com/art/architecture-in-Sibiu-66185747

Letters of the Atlantic

collections of photographs
will tell a story like a book
-only through color and form

i will collect a million photographs
and meet you on the bench below
the streetlamp that i once made my
own emblem, a photographic plea
to save a dying memory

it was beside the river
that once was crossed in snow

i have attained my hand-made
adventure cap that brings advantages
to the wandering whimsical woman
who whispers in the dark about the
willow trees and weathered dreams

i replace the old with the new


she requires a cream colored parasol for
the idealistic, perfected pose- a picture
-one to add to the million;
a million and one and the last will tell it all

she awoke with letters of the Atlantic
imprinted upon her porcelain skin
volumes of oceans and continents coalesce
upon the covers of her night

argentina quietly slipped into her lucid
forgotten dreams-
like scenes from buenos aires could cure
her restless soul

she knew no other way to fold or unfold
the map and there are no creases yet it is
prepared for storage and upon arrival
will be freed of its bounds and hung above
the covers in a new town. with a new house
and a new name for how it has been.

the forecast called for rain and so she brought
her parasol in case of the photograph and in
case her red stockings became wet it would never match
the cream of the cover and she would never be the same

after the rain she found a bottle with
a foreign name and shattered it against the dumpster
because it felt like it needed to be changed
for the sake of one less perfect bottle;
the lack of a sign of grace



http://daisyrainbow.deviantart.com/art/Map-to-Adventure-98226999

We Are Changing in the Sun Rise

it came in the morning, but the sun did not rise and the light did not illuminate our faces. the water did not flood the room and the lack of windows disappeared the rest of the world. enclosed, infinite, given in and our eyes are giving in to the pull of sleep- but it said awake. awake and find yourself among the petals and remnants, among the materials and qualifications. you do not come to this place in immortality; you are a face that rises and changes and ages- and always the sun will rise. the room with four walls, four barriers, only four of the million and a nondescript electrical box against the wall. something powers the world, rooms without windows have electrical boxes for the light- just in case.
may is our own private island, beyond us lies the sea. the sailboat turns the bend; the lighthouse guides in. the solitary soul guides beams across us, bring the ships in, against barriers unnecessary. hoist the sails, push off for the island. my island, our island, may upon the breeze. even in the four we see the light.
i see the light; it is escaping from the edges of our minds. i think we will remember how the sun did or didn't rise. and how it did or didn't wake us in the morning. the showers come with shifting mountain air; even when the clouds cover the sun, it rises. when the sun does not rise it is actually rising just like yesterday and tomorrow. and the walls are solid still and we will navigate the dark. we will kiss the shores upon arrival.

http://cookiemonstah.deviantart.com/art/The-lighthouse-lovers-94521084

I felt like a Story.

Her camera lay gently across her fingers, pressing ridges into her limp palm. Tonight, as on many other occasions, Mica was reminded of the evenings as they gently passed, in and out like a fleeting thought across canvas. Before she was rested, the morning sun rose to insist on her perpendicular motions; 'move and be moving' was all the sun would say. Sometimes she let the ebb and flow of the days go like liquid through her hands, allowing herself a transient state of mind. Never sedentary, Mica struggled to find the perception of life that would not weigh her down.

Sometimes she paced the streets, looking for nothing in particular- she liked the shadows in the people's faces, how there was rarely enough light to reveal their grotesque smiles that were always hidden, as though their secrets might be revealed in a small gesture. Mica had just returned from a walk to her favorite house on the only hill in town. There were figurines made of anything and everything strewn across the yard, an army of miss-matched junk. They reminded her of the stock-yard behind the house where she grew up. At the gate of the house, Mica had snapped a photo of the aging red front door, from an angle she had never captured. One photo was all the proof of her existence tonight.

It came as no surprise to find that they were always right; the changing of the season tells of life and death- endless cycles, endless roads. Why had this become her obsession? She sighed and felt the summer breeze across her face, as if it were telling her the same. But she felt another whisper behind the wind: it told her she was free of all expectations, free to wander forever. Or at least she liked to think so. Life was catching up with Mica- she found that she reveled in a stolen moment as though it would be the last in which she was the true writer of her own story. Why had she left everything to find a new life in Boston? It was barely a regret now but rather a fact that was grudgingly accepted.
The events of the previous day unfolded before her, words and wanderings now distant memories; the cup of coffee, the bright yellow scarf, the smiling young man who had insisted on helping move the sofa out of ........................

What Words Will Tell You

from the back of the crowd
i watched you gesture at the stars,
like everything was beyond

our grasp, and i gasped at
how you laughed like there were
a million reasons not to care

about where we are headed
and the wind takes us with
it like a guide and i am pacing

the corridors of my mind as
though there are clues waiting for
me to discover but

they hide in crevices and wait
for the right moment to
reveal themselves

to us they seem so strange and
if they come they have little to say
about why they visited at all




i'd like to press holes into our bodies
and wait to watch them heal like new
just to see how human we are

the train passes and we are waiting
for the next line to come while
we're standing in the middle of the crowd like

there is a train that comes just for us
and if taken at the right time
we will end up like we should

but maybe we shouldn't be and maybe
i don't want to take the right train
and ride the right car and take the

right steps to make things look alright
because my train has no name and
no determined destination

http://parawan.deviantart.com/art/Train-55045786

The Dancer

The Dancer by Gabriela Mistral

The dancer now is dancing
the dance of losing it all.
Whatever she said, she lets it go,
fathers and brothers, gardens and fields,
the sound of her river, the roads,
her fireside tale, her face,
her name, and the games of her childhood,
as if she were letting everything fall
from her back, her breast, her soul.

On the edge of night and winter
laughing, she dances total poverty.
In the world she's winnowing away,
the loving, hating, smiling, killing world,
earth crushed to a bloody vintage,
night with its sleepless excesses,
and the ache of homelessness.

Without name or creed or people, stripped
or everything and of herself, she gives from the core
beautiful, pure, with flying feet.
Shaken like a tree and in the eye
of the tornado, she bears witness.

She isn't dancing the flight of albatross,
salt-spattered, sport of the waves,
nor the lift and bow
of reed-beds in the wind,
nor the wind that fills the sail,
nor the smile of the high grass.

She isn't called by her baptismal name.
She loosed herself from caste and flesh,
buried the beat of her blood
and the ballad of her adolescence.

Without knowing it we throw our lives
over her like a poisonous red garment.
And so she dances while vipers
crawl on her, biting, quick and free,
and let her drop like a tattered wreath,
the banner of a defeated army.

Sleepwalking, turned into what she hates,
she dances on, not knowing she is changed,
her gestures scattering and gathering,
gasping out gasping breaths,
cutting the air that brings her no relief,
alone, a whirlwind, foul and pure.

We, we are the gasping of her breast,
her bloodless pallor, the wild cry
she sends from west to east,
the red fever of her veins,
the loss of the God of her childhood.

En el cafe

In the Cafe by Clementina Suarez

Every day I sit in the cafe
as if I could push time ahead.
Everything around us is misery and suffering
even the way we speak.

There are those
who hope that someone
will appear
to pay for their cup of coffee.
(My God, fifteen cents.)

Women worn out from life
with the true weariness of the flesh...

This immense solitude, this absence, when does it attack?
Where does the drama begin or end?
It would be enough just to close one's eyes
and enjoy seeing one's self
close, so close.

In fact who isn't happy that way
Like a peaceful sky
Still and deaf amid the blood's turbulence.
What a restful life. Will I ever know it?
No, it's not what I want,
I don't want to let go of my anguish.
I don't want a prison for my soul,
but prefer to swim in the shadows.

I tell myself:
I have to grow,
inevitably
children stand
before me

I am barefoot with them
looking for bread
in my small hands.

Your Eyes, Moorish Slaves

Your Eyes, Moorish Slaves by Delmira Agustini

In your coldness were ensconced
The great Moorish slaves;
Dark and shining in golds
From a distance they guarded me.

And, devouring, they dreamt
In me, I know not what treasures...
Behind the crystal of tears
They guarded and threatened.

They beat angelic wings,
They pounded satanic hands,
Their two strange screens;

And when I look upon them coquettishly,
Their fiery halberds
Pierced my entrails.

It is said
women give [and give and give]
voice and expression
to the oppressed.

I find a hunger in my belly for
something of substance. Of value.
That tastes like it smells
and hurts like it bleeds.
For reality, for honesty, for truth.


---------------


your voices echo across
the land and sea into our
conscience and the condition
of your child and your fellow man
tells some truth beyond
me and the sun rises here
just like it might there but
our women rise to the sun
in a different way

we are all rising in the sun
and speaking of the ways in which we
wish to live- like saints we sing
the song of woman or the song
of desperation
we will rise and we will speak of
how the sun rises slowly upon
the backs of the beautiful
bent-double masses of the
world who taste no bread and
work the calluses into their
hands only to find that they
will never taste the extremes
of what it means to be free

she woke with the sun and
painted her lifetime upon the
washing stand while singing
about another land
where the dancers smile
and the coffee is free,
and how the slaves sang
until midnight of the night of
their liberation

she awoke among the undeniable
truths of her life and spoke to
the farthest shores

An Interesting Idea

Literary Journal on the streets:

http://isreads.com/


hmmmm.....

The Way it is Now

in the blooming summers breeze

we begin to see an opposite side
of things we thought of you

i cannot stand the stamping circles
the world demands to make
and yet this brings to brink
the reality of [in]sanity

double taken reflection against
the tanning skin backdrop of
my shoulders and arms and
my waist is taking for granted
the age of bud of body

somehow some days i still am
waiting for the rest to be removed
without apologies and the lead
to set back into my spine

we will never be the same

today is near revolution
as i stand upon my newborn rock
and paint the old pains and pictures
i used to reiterate to stop
the endless questions

what does it mean to you if
i am walking alone and smiling
and never looking back to
what my life whispered in my ear
and i am not listening anymore to
the reasoning or rhetoric of the
cyclical life they sit upon like
a thrown entitled to no one
but your royal high-ness

the high-ness and the near-ness
of my world and yours is beyond
the spectrum of my once imagined
life and somehow it still feels
like i'm chasing stars and strangers
in hopes that they are the one
dream or the one to fill the
expectations of experience

but i am not and i am smiling
because i believe in the healing
of the truth and the revealing
of who we really are

they are the same clothes
i just wear them differently























http://ochira.deviantart.com/art/back-48940604

Orphaned Words

where did you go when you
told me you were lonely
and held your breath just to
remember
but I remember
the time you blew
away the entire dandelion

how that dream never came true

we wait to be dreaming so
we can quench that thirst
and put it in glass jars
for later

i don't want to lose
the desire

we contemplate the collections
and slowly realize
once we move away from them we
find the bottom of ourselves

circles of glass bottles
plotting their revenge

the dead bumblebee lays in front
of my door with his six
legs in the air

i wait- he's still alive

a million first page poems
will be written in my sleep
but will never reach
the paper to save them














http://arbelwen.deviantart.com/art/Bottles-48214206

We're Walking in Circles

you found me the first time
and i am holding my breath because
i hope you will find me a second time

and we will walk like foxes
through the fields and urban slum
we will walk and i will tell you
exactly why i'm still standing
here watching you like you were
the greatest sight on earth and
your eyes are my human being


the window panes were watching
but we swore we were alone
they were watching and we
were cursing the ice under
our feet but we kept on
going forward forever until we
could remember the trellises of
the ice castles

I drew the ice castle when
I was five and was sitting at the
picnic table out back where
you were stung by bees and
our yellow labrador yelped
it scared me how she cried
and I cried and stubbed my toe

our yellow labrador came with us
to our new home and we built her
a new house and put insulation
in the walls
we put it in the walls and hoped
she would stay warm
but she always seemed desperate
to share our life indoors



when you last took the trip
across the lake you forgot
to bring your camera and when
we crossed the river we found
the duck hunting lodge where
I could look out and see to
the other side of the river

i took your picture from
the slit in the wall
meant for shooting ducks
i took your picture while you
held up the sledgehammer

an orphaned sledgehammer waited
across the river for me to stand up
and pace my way across as i lost
years and fragility
as i lost my child eye and i
crossed the river i wanted only
to have a taste of the side that
for so long i could never reach


our footprints revealed our location
but i'm not walking in sand and
we are not walking in snow so how
will you find me if there are
no footprints and you can't remember
where you left me


i am leaving soon and you
are headed towards the rest
but i don't know
where you will be and i want to
remember you like you were last night

we have been standing like the
bravest men on the front lines
even though i'm a woman

i am the woman and i am slowly
learning that i always was
and i am the butterfly
how much of a woman has been released
and celebrated as we find new depths
to our celebrated life and
how will I ever find you across the lake
if there are no footprints to follow

i'm not walking in sand
and we are not walking in snow
so how will you ever
find me


i'll always leave you verses
to follow

























http://browse.deviantart.com/photography/?order=24#order=9&q=frozen+river

I'll Back You Up

I'll Back You Up by Dave Matthews Band

I remember thinking
I'll go on forever only knowing
I'll see you again
But I know
The touch of you is hard to remember
But like that touch I know no other
And for sure we have danced
In the risk of each other
Would YOU like to dance
Around the world with me

I'll be falling all about my own thing
And I know you're the heaviest weight
When you're not here that's hung
Around my head

And your lips burn wild
Thrown from the face of a child
And in your eyes
The seeing of the greatest view
Do what you will, always
Walk where you like, your steps
Do as you please, I'll back you up

I remember thinking
Sometimes we walk
Sometimes we run away
But I know
No matter how fast we are running
Somehow we keep
Somehow we keep up with each other

I'll be falling all about my own thing
And I know you're the heaviest weight
When you're not here that's hung
Around my head

And your lips burn wild
Thrown from the face of a child
And in your eyes
The seeing of the greatest view
Do what you will, always
Walk where you like, your steps
Do as you please, I'll back you up

The Weight of Lies

The Weight of Lies by The Avett Brothers

Disappear from you hometown
Go and find the people that you know
Show them all you good parts
Leave town when bad ones start to show
Go and wed a woman
A pretty girl that you’ve never met
Make sure she knows you love her well
But don’t make any other promises


The weight of lies will bring you down
And follow you to every town
Cause nothing happens here that doesn’t happen there
So when you run make sure you run
To something and not away from
Cause lies don’t need an aeroplane to chase you anywhere


I once heard the worse thing
A man could do is draw a hungry crowd
Tell everyone his name, pride, and confidence
But leaving out his doubt
I’m not sure I bought those words
When I was young I knew most everything
These words have never met so much to anyone
As they now mean to me


The weight of lies will bring you down
And follow you to every town
Cause nothing happens here that doesn’t happen there
So when you run make sure you run
To something and not away from
Cause lies don’t need an aeroplane to chase you down

Something Incomplete

I began to lose myself
in the intricacies of you.
In the night, I find myself on the edges
of my conversations about passing and present;
moments and memories and movements chase each other
-shocked in early morning
at how it all boils down to you.

I will stand upon the hill
and kiss you in front of the world-
or walk slowly through the woods
and count the steps we take.

We are leaning forward, heads down
at the top of the stairs.

Generation Gone

The elasticity of our skin
Was never guaranteed.
The packaging never told you
that the chemicals would eat
at your underside.

They wrote across your grave:
Spirited, Respected, Beloved.
How does it feel to know
only three words sum up your life?

Stammering and stumbling,
we try to grasp the outstretched hand,
for support we never wanted to need.
The silence begins to eat at our bellies,
Scraping to the dregs and drenching you
In hesitation.


We visited your grave in the sunshine,
Arguing amongst ourselves as usual.
Two sets of two generations
of women.
We stood above your grave, as if
we hoped you might tell us
what we forgot to ask,
or the wisdom you forgot to mention.

And I hope the trees sway above you,
moving with the wind like a breath
across your face- I hope you remember
what the world feels like or felt like,
or how you were the greatest adventurer
and surest foundation for an entire family,
entirely too lost and too headstrong
to do it without you.
I remember the photographs you sent from Alaska,
the stuffed polar bear you brought. I remember
hoping that some day I'd be able to enjoy life
like you did.

I hope the trees sway above you,
because willows remind me of you.
Last week, my mother gave me your old earrings
and I wondered if you'd worn them,
or felt like you were young and
beautiful- or worn them when you were.
And I'm feeling how I haven't grieved,
how I've pretended we aren't missing you.
How I've hurt for you for years,
but never knew just what to say.
I wrote a letter, and we buried it with you
-so maybe you might remember, and have us
close. But no letter does life justice.
They buried you in June and I wasn't even there.
No book, no three words, no line
-no single memory can recreate you.
And I'd like to kiss the teardrops from
my mother's aging skin. I'd like to tell
her she's done enough; we are human and
I sometimes like to think
we have the ability
to forgive.

I hold what little I have,
another handful of photographs
and a few words printed in stone.
I hold my dreams in an envelope
stamped and addressed
but never mailed.

Correlations.

I hover at the doorway,
pulling back the curtain
to see a glimpse of the light
you will be walking in,
or that I, upon desiring so,
could have been walking in
The lines of the familiar song
replay in my mind,
as if the writer read my life
and recorded my stolen voice.
Never satisfied, never completely solitary.
And yet seeking such isolation
or immersion to suffocate in
or exhale upon.

What tantamount discoveries have
come to pass through the spectrum of
my high and low, eternally-pacing
the caverns and caves of the things I
will never find?

I hover between the extremes
that hold complicity and conjecture,
like the magnet on the fridge that won't hold.

I think of silhouettes,
standing hand in hand.

And how last summer, as I painted
my way through an odd experiment,
there were no words to be said
-or apologies to be made;
In your eyes I found less
than a year's worth
of sorrows; you told lies the size of giants
just to keep yourself from wishing.
Well, I prophesize.

Some day I will stand between
you and the window, holding a
large vase that was a gift
from a friend.
We will be laughing,
our meanings meeting in the middle
after we realize how right
or wrong we were before.

Before the rain, it smells
like euphoria.

Somewhere behind these walls
we have sat
and waited
for the beginning
or some inevitable end.

Sunshine

http://showeme.deviantart.com/art/sunrise-46249925



I gesture to the sunrise, to remind myself the sun appears and disappears each day.
It's like I can touch it- maybe taste the rich rays of flavor and light. Can you feel it? Taste it too.
I'm waiting for the orb to fall out of the sky; or maybe mold into expressions, face portraying the energies of the universe. Or perhaps I will ride across the sunspots and chemical lashings like an immortal being.
Or maybe not. Maybe it's hot and far away and I will never know it and feel it other than the sunburn upon my already freckled back.

Kids

MGMT: Kids

You were a child,
crawlin' on your knees toward it.
Makin' mama so proud,
but your voice is too loud.

We like to watch you laughing.
Pickin' insects off plants.
No time to think of consequences.

Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wanting,
To be haunted.

Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.

The water is warm,
but its sending me shivers.
A baby is born,
crying out for attention.
Memories fade,
like looking through a fogged mirror
Decisions to decisions are made and not fought
But I thought,
this wouldn't hurt a lot.
I guess not.

Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.

We Made Them With Our Hands

The daffodils bloomed for the first time
since last spring,
when I grappled with basic instinct
to not be alone.
The daffodils bloomed and I thought
I could grasp the depth of
shades of yellow and blue
and so I fell into existences
that I never really knew;
The circles I walked in,
the paths I created in
my endless pacing and erasing
of the things I thought I knew
was like gesturing the motions
in an exhibition of the greatest
theatrical show.

The daffodils began to bloom
and I told you the names of flowers;
I tell you the names of flowers
and hands hover before the
stalks, because I want them to grow
and for us to grow and share
what beautiful minds we could
share with the world and the
beautiful pictures I paint
with the words that come from somewhere,
or maybe they come from nowhere
when I lie to myself and
pretend that we are all sleeping
without our eyes open.
But really we are watching, constantly measuring
the beat of our hearts and the strength of our pulse
and I measure the amount of time that has
passed and I measure the amount of my heart
that lasts inside of your heart because
I sometimes like to tell you what I'm thinking
or why I'm laughing and I sometimes like
to be the person that I really am and that I have found
after the pacing and the sleeping or not sleeping
and the murmurings that I don't understand, that the wind blew it away
and without the directions how will we ever
find our way? Improvising and advertising
our inability to find the perfect fit
but in the palm of my hands I fit more than a
stone that is flat and perfect for skipping,
more than a bracelet made of buttons,
more than a few rejected photographs. In my hands
I find the handful of memories that I will
take with me and keep in my pockets for safe keeping
when the world is asking why and I am saying because
I said so, because it is so, because it was so,
because we are so
fantastical and fanatical, unique and [aunque]
what's with the smile, or the long face
that follows you outside of your mind
and into my life? There is something
behind the motions and your fingers
that feel the side of my face and the
back of my spine,
and we arch in and out of our most
famous and most fettered frequencies,
I want to share with you
the wings of the butterflies that I
saved for all those years, in wooden boxes from
my grandmother. Those boxes smelled like another
world where butterflies never belonged, but I
kept them there in case that was where it was supposed to be,
so we can extend its wings for it and see the patterns
in its outspread span; our horizons are filled
with accidental rows of yellow daisies
and I touch them with the tips of my fingers;
the same fingers that felt the heat of the liquid
that I kept in my cup for some safe keeping,
and some comfort when the sun rises too early
and I find the street alone where I once thought
that was true. But the streetlight stayed on
through the entire day, and it never questioned why
it had to work so hard to light a world that was
already lit with the rays of the sun.
And the streetlight accompanied me,
and I never had to face the opposite
of light on my own as I take the path up to the
road and walk down the edge of the cement where
the pebbles begin to break free and take
flight into another world.
The daffodils bloom next to the road
and I think of how we talk about
the names of things and how we
will never know the names of all
the things in the world. The daffodils
bloom and I picture the future of the
millions of flowers that were cut
to be presented to the prettiest women,
as more than words, words other than 'I love you'.
But they are blooming and I am holding up the
light so that we can see in the night;
we can see in the night and I will always
be thinking of the first time I met you.















http://mellotroniac.deviantart.com/art/Daffodils-112710540