her mouth was sandpaper.

her mouth was sandpaper
and she spoke like
a smooth surface,
words scraped into fluidity
like a wooden sphere,
turned over behind teeth ‘til all friction
is lost.
she spoke like the walls of a birdhouse
in the room of a dead carpenter:
pretty unassembled things.

her mouth was sandpaper
and every kiss chafed,
rubbing raw my lips
and tongue
crafting with each touch
drawing blood like
juice from an apple,
like sap
from wood already cut from the tree.

her mouth was sandpaper
and she told me
i bite my lips,
rip at
the inside of my mouth,
cannibalize myself cell
by cell.
bone saws in her mouth.
the only difference between teeth of jaws
and saws
is mercy
(and she swallowed her mercy long ago).

her mouth was sandpaper
and she spoke like a carpenter’s hands:
rough palms,
tough pads,
a utilitarian artist
a crafter of dead flesh.
a mortician for dryads
and kodama.
the art and the artist
in lips
tongue
and teeth.

her mouth was sandpaper
and i brought mine to hers
again and again,
her bitten-rough lips
opening like doors to
purgatory.
less entrapment than addiction -
returning once more to nails and hammers,
hell’s blacksmiths below
heaven’s painters above.
coming back home
to the space between,
to bone saws
and a carpenter’s hands.

her mouth was sandpaper
and her voice was carpentry,
her teeth bone saws
her words
birdhouse walls.
her mouth was purgatory
but her hands
were hands.

her mouth was sandpaper.
i held her hand
and chafed my lips raw.

Just as a boy grows into teenager,
he is bound, to one day, grow into man.
I think it's when he is just five years old,
he becomes a demolition fan.

At that juncture, it's all about the tools.
To dismantle what works perfectly well.
They may begin plastic at the start,
but it triggers something in their cells.

A teenager will start with something small,
a lawnmower, dirt bike, then on to cars.
Then as he ages and gains life experience,
the quest for tools is written in the stars.

It starts with a simple set of wrenches.
Then moves on to socket sets and ratchet.
Not just ASE, they need metric as well.
A tool store is a veritable banquet.

Metal worker, wood crafter, mechanic,
Plumber a welder and electrician.
Wrapped up in a testosterone package,
needing a new tool for the next mission.

Watch as his eye light, when reaching for a tool,
that's new to the market, sitting on display.
It's no longer about simple fun in an old cardboard box.
It will be tools from now till his dying day.

Imagine your dreams as reality,
one who crafts and shapes how their life will be.
A smith with unlimited skill,
unmatched force inside,
called the strength of ones will.

You carry a charge within you,
A powder keg of potential dreams;
Don't let all these shadows dissuade you.
Light your fuse and burst life at the seams!

There's no need to rein in adventure,
not when the company's true.
Just be sure to take stock and measure,
the loyalty of those close to you.

The message that resonates deep,
that echos within each of our souls is
have courage -- live what you dream up.
No one else can achieve your heart's goals.

Who Am I?

I am a boy and a man.
I am a son, a brother, a cousin, a nephew, and a grand child.
I was a boyfriend, a fiancé, a husband, and an in-law.
I am a bachelor.
I am surrounded and abandoned.
I am a family man and a loner.

I am a homemaker and a handyman.
I wear the apron and the tool belt.
I am a neat freak and a slob.
I am an amateur contractor and a contracted amateur.
I am a dumpster diver, a recycler, and a decadent waste.
I am a glutton, a scavenger, and a scrapper.

I am a friend and an enemy.
I am fun and an annoyance.
I am a lover and a hater.
I am creepy, cruel, and harsh.
I am tender, loving, and inviting.
I have a foul mouth and tender lips,
Drenched in jagged, soft-serve words.

I am a painter, sculptor, draftsman, sketcher, character designer, photographer, graphic designer, fashion designer, kitbasher, customizer, and crafter.
I am a reader, a writer, and a poet.
I am the Jail Baby, Ryan & Lisa, The Phoenix, The AntiFather, and The HEYMAN!
I compose symphonies of visual and intangible imagery.
I bring form to thought.
I destroy,
I create.
I am an artist.

I am a geek, nerd, freak, and otaku.
I have been punk, goth, prep, white trash, and metrosexual.
I wear glasses,
But only as a sick joke.
I am beautiful and ugly,
Clean and *****.
I am unique.
I am predictable.
I have changed, but am still the same.

I am a techie,
An electronic ******.
I am cutting edge and old school.
Digitally signed and sealed.
I am analog and obsolete.

I am an adrenaline addict.
I can chill, maybe slow,
But never relax.

I am blue collar, tradesman, and service industry.
I am peon and ****** on.
Oh, but I have done the ******* too!
I have been hired and fired,
Bought and sold.
I have worn the uniform,
I have said, “**** the man!”
I am the proletariat,
I am in charge.

I am a student, dropout, and teacher.
I am class clown and teacher’s pet.
I have learned, forgotten, and taught,
But never learned my lesson.
I don’t listen to what I’m told,
But always do what I tell.

I am a genius,
I am an idiot.
I have intelligence, but often lack the intel.
I am naïve, but wise.
I am right and wrong.

I have philosophies and ideas,
But no religion.
I have desecrated and blasphemed,
Prayed and praised.
I have lusted, envied, and coveted.
I am guilty and innocent,
Pure and soiled,
Good and bad.

I am a driver and a passenger.
I am an explorer and a shut-in.
I am wild and free,
Caged and stifled.
I was warmly wrapped in my blanket,
But burned through it.

I have rode, climbed, and conquered.
I  stood still.
I jumped in.
I have fallen and been defeated.

I have been abroad,
I have been nowhere.
I have drifted.
I have settled.
I have led and been led.
I have been in and out,
Here and there,
Around and AWOL,
On the run and trapped.
But, not everywhere.

I have applied,
I have procrastinated.
I have worked my fingers to the bone,
I have slept it off.

I have fought and fled.
I have quit.
I have endured.
I am a winner and a loser,
A champ and a chump.

I am fake,
I am real.
I have lied, cheated, and stole.
I have been honest, fair, and generous.

I am selfish and selfless.
I am a gift giver, gift wrapper, and gift taker.
I am a thief and a philanthropist.

I am insecure and confident,
Confused and absolutely sure.
I am proud and ashamed.
I am complicated and convoluted,
But simple to please.

I have blind faith and guarded suspicion
I have secrets,
But lie rarely.
I accept everyone,
I trust nothing.

I have pointed the finger,
Only to turn it on myself.
I have held grudges and forgiven.
I have trusted and misguided.
I have been Judas and Jesus.

I am a maniac,
I am sane.
I have been strong and weak.
I can keep it together,
But prefer to break it apart.

I have bled.
I have healed.
I have been abused and neglected,
Coddled and protected.

I have been kissed and punched;
Hunted, wanted, and arrested,
Ignored, overlooked, and invisible.

I have loved and lost,
Lived and learned.
I am a soldier of misfortune and opportunity.

I have blended in.
I have stood out.
I have stood up.
I have backed down.
I have been backed into a corner.
I have all the space in the world.

I have seen, interpreted, and perceived,
I have ignored, dismissed, and been blind.
I hunger, want, and need…
I am satiated and content,
But never at peace.

I have been misunderstood and underestimated.
I have been put down, put up, pushed away, and let in.
I have been known,
But never entirely.

I have raged, cried, smiled, trembled, and laughed.
I have been depressed.
I have been happy.
I have been suicidal. I have felt death.
I have been lost and found.
I have been broken, then fixed,
Stitched, yet glitched,
Scarred, but whole.
I am alive.


I took the chance,
I let the moment slip.
I walked the straight and narrow,
I ran down the road not taken.
I dream; some whole, some shattered.
I go with the flow, but don’t let the waves take me.

I am shards and reflections,
Machinations and reactions.
I am translucent pieces and parts,
Assembled and disheveled.
I am the big picture still focused on the details.

I am the sum total of heredity and experience.
I am not,
I am more.
I am everything and nothing.
I am a walking contradiction.
I am human.

I tried to be you,
But didn’t know what that meant.
I am me,
It’s all I know.

Who are you?

Oh, how the mighty art fallen
Lucifer, son of the morning star
Behooved by manner of thy own devices
How pompous thou hadst become to refuse to bend thy knee to man
It was pride that filled thee to burst
Had it not been but a few millenia later
Even your knee would have bent to the King of Glory
Whenst He did stoop down to the level of man
Even you wouldst have cried out "Lord, Lord wouldst thou not take upon thyself my raiment of glory? Clothe yourself as a king, not as a commoner."
Were it so much that us being made of dirt and you of fire that your proudness could render thee blind to our beauty as endowed by our shared Creator?
Though our mediums be different, were the Crafter's hands not the same?
Wouldst thou haft only humbled thyself, a different world we could have
I pity and thank thee, oh fallen one
For showing me how not to be

Come bearer of death
oh, carrion crafter
the plains be wrought bereft
oh, we hail forever after!

Be your praise dying cries and blood
you murderer of the weak
raise your armies, a rampant flood
and with ease, crush the meek!

Sire of the end
and vanguard of sin
pray we the world never mend
and light never win!

Break me
Oh mighty crafter
A stubborn statue I have been
Though the hardships have weathered against me
Sought to endure through them, I have
But it is not the will of man or myself that seeks me broken
It is Your Will, Lord
Break me, not so I will fall and crumble
Break me, so that I may be rebuilt
Crafted in the beginning so that I might be displayed in your righteous and Holy hall at the end
A darkness was cast upon the world and I was overtaken
Deteriorating, I was
Living in this sinful state, I continued
Why? Just to exist?
When your Son came down, He offered me shelter from the elements
I thought myself forgotten, ready for time to take its toll
Destroyed, I was prepared to be
The corruption went deeper than the surface
No longer fit was I to enter your Holy hall at the end of all
Yet your Son, by Your hand sent, came to restore me
Break me, so that I may be rebuilt in the glorious visage you envisioned
Though the elements will be harsh against me still, I will trust in You to keep me
Break me, Father, so that I may be restored

Stop. Breathe.
Feel the earth beneath you're feet
Stay intact, stop the fracture
Everywhere you look there's greener pastures
Have a moment of laughter,
Appealing to no master
In this current moment
You know nothing else could matter
Peace will come full circle like the rings of saturn
You can pull yourself together when you find yourself scattered
You're destiny is malleable, and only you can be it's crafter

Our childhoods lay out between us,
Like games we pretend to play.
Pieces lost under your bed.
Cards crafter unconsciously into makeshift chaos.
Somehow this was enough.

That was before; when goodnight wasn’t as simple as two words stung loosely together from start to star until it hung silently over our heads.
No, it used to be spelled out in whole solar systems maped out in secret between us.
Escape wasn’t the door you walked out of.
It was a door we swung open and ran into.
I used to watch you blink.
Gusts of wind sending waves
across your blue eyes.

I was convinced that somehow we were pure

I remember sitting on my mother’s lap once.
She whispered
“One say you’re going to outgrow my lap”
I quickly promised back
“We will always fit”

I thought that we were one of those promises.


I waited for you to hang the moon and wake the sun.

Time ran through your veins.
You effortlessly used it.
It echoes through the place I would never belong.

{shoot the moon}

I still feel you,
You're tattooed in my soul
I'd still bleed for you,
Pull me up from this hole

Your touch lies just beyond my fingers
I till walk the rooms, where your scent doth linger
Remnants of a time that's gone away
The wildflowers have withered at the doorstep of decay

The photographs are driving me insane
Tears catch in my throat as the frame,
Shatters,
Under my fist, the blood on my knuckles
Brings me laughter
You, the master crafter of my lifes biggest disaster
You were the love of my life,
Burned down to nothing but ashes to scatter
I still hold you in my dreams, but in deaths eyes my pain
Does not matter..

I'll be with you soon, and we can dance,
Out to the moon in a dead lovers wonderland
As this razor glides across my veins
I'll pass through those blackened gates
And hold you in eternal rain
I'm coming back love, today's the day
I feel the rain, disolve the pain,
The pain, the pain,
The pain has gone away

He walks across skies  
His footprints leave colours behind
Slowly, steadily, peacefully
He's guiding the stars

The light have always followed Him
The stars are magnetic  
He is called "Dazzling"
How could they resist?

They remember He named then
Every one knows where to go
Exactly where He placed them
If you let their light get in your eyes
The intimacy of divinity you'll never miss

He's the one from whom lights come
Crafter of the sun  
With lights each night He paints these words  
"My children, it's time to come home."  

Thousands of years have passed
And if thousands more are to come
He'll still be leaving a light on
To bring back daughter and son

Her curiousity calls, my interest stolen
A spirit about her face, when she, seeing
This wonderlust, inescapable, mine,
Yet temporary, as is this.

She emanates a significance,
I can't
resist escaping my chrysalis.

Tasteless, the breath of polluted life I savor
But for a moment. This purest waste it's haste to be expelled back to the sheltered waters which I dwell. Safe now, it sifts back to rest complete amongst the volume I've employed, until I deem its time to feed and shelter with my form.

I float above the seaswept alleys, scrutinizing the bones below, my home, the city of apathy and ruin.
The displacement of my passage rends the ocean in its vastness cleanly. Silent echoes vexed and roiling against the vacant ruins now follow me like nascent hounds. Warily I scale the depths to assess the source of my intruige, and see the obscure sky that holds the gleaming fires of sunset atop it's surface.

"How long have I been here?"
I wonder, and begin to see my real self, sitting on the floor of a home. I feel the ocean and focus my will to observe what caught my interest.

Then sight beholden a paradox,
An encounter fate withheld to ensure
The prospect flounder in a grave I dug years before. The living dead, the myths of old, gods, demons, angels, magic. I found it odd, how deeply painful and tragic my choice to discard my hope for a mask.
No longer.

I am now captivated, yet not by her body,
Enthralled, yet not by her sophistication.
These marked her ardent spirit of royal eloquence, but the intense affirmation held within the emerald sockets that could stop  sense of self when our eye's crossed paths into the traps willingly sprung.

Ah, the fool I'd be to attempt conversing with just a whim, without consent, without intruige!

Then, a wink.

This invitation sent so soon, to someone gazing from another room
She waded to me, half a grin, wry & ****
Effectively stopping all pretense of conscious thought, Instinctually I prevented the dropping of my jaw, and stopped my brain from shutting off completely, or tried to anyways.
She was getting closer, steady pace,
[What should I do now? I'm drowning in my own self doubts. I'm unworthy, a clown in comparison! Maybe she thinks I'm someone else, I'll not allow myself to expect the unexpected route, at most I'm just a simple rebound. ]
This plague of thoughts continued down thinking how I could run away, but I hesitated, and it's too late.
A part of me tries to defer her play. Escape, and drift back beneath the salty waters of marshland behind my eyes, while hers stare deeply into them. My attempts to decline her company are ignored, and I'm stopped. She holds me quietly, the beauty of her eyes a spotlight guiding the search of my face for signs of compliance or defiance.
I'm lost now.
Lost in the eyes of a friend I needed years ago, eyes that match the wonder mine held. They peer through those that cross our path, without fear, or judgment, or expectation. Her golden orbs speak kindly, beautiful they are, and fierce. Her stare holds mine, and though nothing is said, we read the others expressions like two lost strangers, deaf and mute.
Unabashedly she studys the facets of my expression, admitting freely these feelings of intense attraction.
She gently tests the waters that bars my cage, she rests expertly sitting on the floor next to me. She glances up, so close to me now her expression a breathy question.
How long until I could accept her intentions? I feel the shackles release, she coaxed the key from my my captors, thieving crafter of my release. Embracing her comfort and pleasant breeze. I take hold of her arm, then bit her politely, delight shows as she pulled me further from my city of despairity.

Seas now far below, The water from my lungs exchanged, now I sit in this party on the floor with my love without a name. I clutch her hand and grasp her eyes, breathe in deeply the easy air she helped me find. We stand and head outside.

Now the night is brightly lit by the many eye's of Nyx. She watches us watching her content to guide us from afar

We stay quiet, talking with our eyes until arriving at the station, the parking lots border shops finding space to lay and gaze at the mosaic in the sky

Then begins speech unending.

Attention, on her it looks mesmerizing, she began training in the ways of climbing deftly,  then set her sights on the hermit keepers of inner self, squirreled away in the deepest craggy recesses of  their self-isolating depression.
Her gear, well worn yet sturdy, she traversed the labrynths of the soul effortlessly. Astonishing and

The sun, now soon to wake reminds me time is rife to take my soul to depths beneath the motionless sea of my making, while the sunlight in her eyes whispers promises of eternity.
To dream and dread together, weaving webs to shelter those truly free, hungry and helpless, yet gifted with sight to see past the momentary issues, issued to men who believe the promises of those who won't miss you.
People like me, perhaps.
I think.
I sink.
In secret, I flash my contempt for my leviathan below. Resting, waiting. It demands  me to remain and skulk the streets of spines that once belonged to me. I'm kept to entertain the formless ****** that slink like klepto's thoughout my fallen city of memories. It keeps them busy, and when they are I search the ripped seams of pockets in dreams. In them was hidden my stolen key, which without I've forgotten peace.

Beneath the waves I drink the salty brine, my lungs adjust to the viscous salt base liquid,
Above cold white-capped crests oscillate,
I'm tethered here. I admit these weights are present, and **** me if I won't accept it.

My simple mind. Behind these watching eyes dwells my sea, and before the serpent catches me again, I see the soft ember color of her eyes in the distance.

I sit here, it's late at night.
I know I should be asleep but I have a need - I am compelled to write.
I spent all day being hungover, avoidng homework and being useless
So it's necessary for me to burn the midnight oil
In order to create something fruitful out of this lost day.

I also need to push forward now and
Guide the pen across the page
To maintain and foster the habit,
To help it grow and develop,
So that in the end I am a better writer.

There are times when I'm not feeling the words and I fumble awkwardly,
Or that I am too busy to be bothered to pause for a scribble,
But my goal is to make this time of writing and therapy
A daily habit.

If I am honest in my wish to be the crafter of words I envision,
I first must show the drive and determination, the dedication.
For the novice, words will forever remain words,
Only the truly gifted ever form sentences.

Call me the butterfly maker,
for I the distracted crafter
often carves irregular squares
from changing planes of vision
into visual planes, flying
as monarchs migrating home.

Call me the snowflake cloud,
for I the cold observer
often molds objective droplets
from forgotten formalities
into memorable figures, coveting
as blankets embracing dirt.

Call me the stone sculptor,
for I the traveling poet
often lifts stone castings
from feeble footprints
into familiar portraits, beckoning
as mothers procuring peace.

One heart that beats is broken for two
A war wages inside my chest, I don't know what to do
A ruthless, ****** battle does go on
It's painful and hurtful which side has won?

Both present their own tastes that draw me
But only one can makes this heart complete
Nothing is the same and I can't decide
Not choosing could lead to my heart's demise

One is fire for my tongue, but sweetness follows after
The other more like milk chocolate that runs like pleasant laughter
One loses me in the two seas they carry and I would like to be lost and never found
The other morphs my imagination with bright colors like a skilled Crafter

If I fell in love with only one
This torment, this hurt would've never begun
I am stuck in the middle of my torn heart
This heart that beats for two shouldn't be torn apart

Books
Portals to faraway magic worlds
And time machines to the past and present
Gateways to parallel universes
Made from the bodies of long dead giants
That lived and grew as far as the eye could see
Slaughtered by the thousands
And drenched in the blood of liquid night
In strange characters in rows one after the other
We are the hopes and dreams of the crafter
And the living embodiment of the mind of the user
We are the collective knowledge of a civilization
And the collective imagination of them too
We are the storytellers of eras gone by
And eras yet to pass
We paint ourselves with bright colors
In order to attract the eye of the user
We say what we tell on our backs
But we are dying
Our users ignore and abuse us
There’s so few left to share our knowledge with
And when we can't share our knowledge
We die
Once we die so too dies all hope for a better future

What a beautiful tragedy
It just is what it had to be
Either swing with the rhythm or
Sink down into your seat while ya
Snap a cold can of brew open
Take a sip without chockin ya
Seasoned Smith with the motion you
Master crafter, not chosen, I'm
Self made man, I been workin still
Humble, held by my people, high
Dancing round in the isles, bar
Tender pour my potion, I need
A taste of your posion, push glass
Across marble oceans, look past
My eyes see right through you, so clear
The sky says it knew you, back when
We flew to the moon and lost our
Minds in a crater, digging for
Diamond stars, our creators burn
Now play me that sweet musical...

It's lucky I'm a poet;
if I wasn't a crafter of words,
it would be nearly
impossible
to find the words to describe
The swelling of my heart
whenever I think of you
(It's like my chest is about to burst)
The tingle in my stomach
when I know you're near
(It's so odd I really can't describe it,
except to say that it's impatient)
The surge of love and happiness,
warmth and comfort,
that fills me completely
when I melt into your arms
(Oh, it's so perfectly warm)
Oh, how do I describe my love?
It's another world,
attached to my older, darker one,
and only good things are allowed
to enter the sphere.
It's a swelling, like a tidal wave
crashing over me, but
I am not afraid.
It's home.
It's...home.
It's safe and it's warm, and...
It's home, being in your arms.
There is no place I'd rather be.

There was an old man who was a crafter.
He had a son with a dream,
The son wanted to FLY.
So his dad made him wings out of bird feathers and wax.
And warned him not to fly to close to the sun.
The sun never listened and when he was by the sun,
The wax burned and the wings came off.
So he fell to his death!



What was the crafters name and what was the son's name?

Blow my mind speak in divine flowy sub laminate between the lines, eye cut  through the body cut through love be raunchy, rhetoric the answers already there I only breath heavy air I'm not a millionaire more like heir to nowhere, master of the barren pasture, salt in wound the morning after sick puppy **** lucky grab chunky crunchy munch the bunch, bunch the rest you know with the radar casters the radio sonic receiver digest the pulpy black and white the combo of lie then excite feed proper postures for pompous up nose president of class Pegasus rider cloud shaper cloud crafter come down cast plaster mold masters mocked by pidgeons sheep dove chickens chicken check the crow rear morrow  yesterday's sorrow the future is hollow the present is persistent presence pupil popping places penultimate progression equals one plus two divided by what will you lose loose lip secrets lapping ears too soon big boom drama driven **** man that spoonful of sour truth hurt more than the knife cut of gossip lie lay the toss up on the table listen listen speak to angels or angles figure out the when where why or just taste the night on palate of your soul roll the bones roll the ***** thoughts home grab deep sleep with your dreams kiss em goodnight then let loose a parody of screams one night stand craigslist ad see em again hopeful hopeless hopping ***** home wrecks homogenize energize heavy drive crash core kick door boot scoot root shoot dug up what luck food truck nation street of treats get groovey gravy with the spicy enticing lacy noodle mood lighting . Uh yeah man

The headless lady was radiant; her ***** rested on a lightbulb, a silhouette not unlike that of a bee, yet too sturdy to be bothered by the wind. Her arms and head were replaced by a glowing coat hanger, hinting at some tragedy. She must be sought after for all the wrong reasons, by the most depraved of people. How much pain did she have to endure to be so confident in her superficial image? I’d like to see her face one day, when the light shines not on her body, but her mind.

The hand, the crafter, the smith; surely she, too, shares the pain of her image. Oh she is radiant herself, absolutely. I wonder if she feels like the lady of the painting; her body a fluorescent attraction, her head a household tool. I hope she doesn’t feel shallow and ordinary. She is one of the most vibrant people I’ve traded words with. She is a sight to behold when she wields her mind, and with it, pries open the crevice to her soul.

Every bar looks the same
when you live in a cage,
every round rounds out
with a shot and dry snout.

A cold night out
without snow on the pavement,
as truth slowly trickles through the fickle adoration,
and the empty, impatient crowd
is waiting.

The spotlight hits
a white tie on white shirt,
his smile is perfection,
perfected from dirt
through years of tears and blood and lies,
pompous prattle pasteurised.

The spotlight lingers like cheap perfume
from the back of the room
on a white tie and shirt,
handsome as a groom,
he talks with his hands,
his nails, neatly clipped,
are still lined with dirt.

He holds on to hope
for something like bliss,
not quite convinced it even exists,
outside of an incidental kiss,
but the build-up is crucial
to a master crafter,
and the crowd is rapt,
from the floor to the rafters
awaiting their happily ever after.

He talked about something sacred,
    Something old,
This queer New Yorker Rabbi said
That the storytelling could be a pretext
    And a permission
To use them in our lives today
    But not be used by them

And threading it through the forward motion we
    Find ourselves in
One that doesn't discount so many peoples
    Experiences and truth
We can respect the sacred without
    Being crushed by how it predates
Some of our own fantastic evolution

He said he wasn’t feeling unholy,
This queer New Yorker Rabbi said

. . .

Someday the divine crafter of hearts
Who intimately knows the folds of mine
Sees the smooth strong walls of my Aorta
Free of all the clots the places
Evangelical pastors and mentors
    Tore up in me

Surely the all knowing would understand gears of faith
    And can see the truths which can spin in my chest
Surely he would know I am not an abomination
Nor unnatural
Surely he would see I’ve found something
    That offers more serenity than before

. . .

He said the leg extending from his child’s drag
    Was beautiful
The Orthodox father of the
    Queer New Yorker Rabbi said
And they laughed together

Two oceans flowing side by side
Neither overtaking the other

Are you okay?
The question is asked every single day.
No, not by myself,
But by the people who call me their shelf.

Are you okay?
Instead I get told, "get out of my way."
As I walk through the hall,
My eyes bawl

Are you okay?
I heard the girl say
She picked my books up for me
It felt like my heart was opened with a key

Are you okay?
Her eyes were blue-ish grey
She helped me from the floor
It was like that book I read of lore

Are you okay?
She asked as I took her to a café
For it was five years after
And i learned she was a crafter

Are you okay?
She mended my heart with clay
Her name was Kate
And she told me to wait

Are you okay?
She asked as she lifted the tray
For we were older than before
And we both needed help to pour

Are you okay?
They asked us as together we lay
We both knew what was coming
For was inevitable, the eradicating