This is
a cattle nation,
an endless sea of
black and white
floating perpetually towards
a smudged horizon,
grey and faded and
seemingly farther away with
each step.

I feel confined in this world of
flat-irons and resumes
and the words
and the people who say the words
but really mean something else,
expecting me to speak in the same
cookie-cutter sentences and
plan out a logical progression of mundanity
to cloak myself behind,
placing my footsteps carefully
in the molding
that was set by the infinite
faceless people that trudged on
before me.

There is no fork in this path,
no place where it splits into
two strips of gravel,
but there is grass on either side,
waist-high and swaying rhythmically
in the breeze;
I step out of my molding,
out of my cloak
and there is mud soaking my feet,
grass grazing my bare knees
and I can see music
and hear color.
I look at the black and white creatures
who can see only shapes and shades
and their grey destination
and I turn around.

I feel free in this world of
choices and serenity,
allowing my feet to lead me
to where the tall grass
meets a pond;
my body caked in dirt,
my hair loose and curly,
my lungs full of air.
The wind whispers fervently,
words unlike
anything I have ever heard
telling me of that feeling
between hiccup-sobs
and moving on,
between being tied down
and pulling away,
reminding me of the
moments of calm and
moments of chaos that
eventually led me

Here.

Staring into the reflection in the pond,
where the transparency meets
the slow ripples,
and I see

Me.
Alone,

leading the way
to my new destination.

at least all 
seven billion of us
feel heartbreak,
the high frequency sound
that explodes inside us,
screeching,

and then our hearts go 
on beating,
all seven billion of them.

I tend to shy away from makeup
I rarely pick up spray or brush
My heart is in flesh beating
and will one day turn to dust

I don't want to put forth creme facade
so you grimace when it rains
the trails of salt from filmy tears
are all that streak my face

If foreign objects draw you
jeweled tones upon the eyes
I do not fault your fancy tastes
or call concealer lies

But love is not burst into fire
by the curving of a kohl stick
And cheeks that redden with a kiss
are all that I would wish
to feed the flame upon the wick
that brightens and brings higher
two souls too bright to miss

The Atlantic Ocean and I sigh
in unison against the shoreline
of Amagansett Beach
and as she inhales;
she drags the land above below,
one grain of sand at a time.

In a few generations
she will have devoured this entire beach,
eventually the whole Island
and with it the multi-million dollar estates
which decorate its topology
like an effigy to human vanity.

I would say never before in history
has there been so few with so much
who have done so little
but that would denote
some kind of significance
and they are hardly worth noting.