I wish I spoke
for the consumption of ten seconds,
so you'd give me your attention,
for one second,
and I’d feel
some form of validation,
in hopes that you’d return to me
for one more moment,
for I hate the unreturning.
I’m like the rising of the sun,
I want to linger
like cigars
on mustaches, lounges and lips
and spread myself
softly
in rogue-crimson,
peachy-oranges –
Van Gogh-yellows
and be deep
and mellow.
This makes me boring
and come off a little shallow,
because I’m too open.
I’m Kimberly,
I yearn for the digging.
It’s my destruction,
like an open pit,
I burn diamonds.
I want to see the bottom,
and hear the end of a story.
I want to see things
I’m not meant to know
and own with human eyes.
I want the thoughts.
I want the ground.
I want food
that fills me up,
for longer
than a few cravings,
than a bitter fool
and a few seconds.
Apr 21
Apr 21, 2026 at 2:02 PM UTC
We travel to places in Africa
where they say stars fell
and made wells
out of mountains.
Darkness,
roosters, and the unexplained
sit displayed
at the birth place of the sun.
There is no time.
The earth carries holes in its wombs
like mountains of sons
who travelled to mountains,
to fetch manhood
but never came back,
home.
No bodies.
Nobodies.
Sons fallen from the sun.
Sons to kings and skies.
Sons no more.
No word.
No more.
Unspoken of.
Unremembered.
Unheard of.
Hidden.
Kept and preserved.
Black holes.
Edo eyes.
Rock Jasmines in yellowwoods.
Shine-shimmer,
gems of distraction on the path
to nowhere.
Cedarburg mountains,
star wilderness.
Red nails.
Blacksmith.
There is deceit in the eye
when you think you can live forever,
in death.
With depth;
all I know is angels do not love,
for they are no source,
and some have fallen far from the source.
They wait beneath the mountains
chained to the depth of darkness.
If you find me here, know that I’ll be gone.
Apr 21
Apr 21, 2026 at 7:01 AM UTC
I mourn what life could have been,
and all the canvases I did not buy and did not fill.
Especially not learning to tango.
I grieve the air in my dreams,
the air I cleave to,
that would have swept my hair through its mid,
and sliced right through me in a clean stroke,
moving on in its silver light
as I cycle through the village;
past broken houses and broken homes
set in landscapes, perfect
for Japanese stories.
And peace...
I mourn.
I am not depressed, I am simply unimpressed,
and pressed,
by childhood stories
that had me pinned in pink-blue skies,
shining for a bird to pick.
Not depressed,
neither am I suicidal,
just dialed in,
maybe stressed,
just a little worn out by the stretch.
Life has been a stretch,
and I had my hands nailed
to my childhood dreams,
dreams hammered to those blue-pink skies.
Let those heavens cry.
Mar 13
Mar 13, 2026 at 10:43 AM UTC
Wine sipped beneath the horizon,
with no plan to retire,
I write moments of my life the same way you glue torn out pieces of different magazines, photos and newspapers.
I glue them all onto one canvas.
I write my thoughts,
in their fragmented state,
like children coming back home…
at different times,
some not showing up,
others absent yet present in void,
others come back to perform,
to hope,
to realize and grieve
and finally say goodbye.
I write,
but when I’m done,
I look at my work with confusion.
I realize the strangeness of truth unedited,
unfashioned.
I look out
and ask
for clarity:
Do you understand the meaning of my words?
Or was the strangeness of truth pieced together
distilled, undiffused
refusing to change?
I do not judge,
for I too am afraid to look a little longer
a little deeper.
Mar 11
Mar 11, 2026 at 2:10 PM UTC
I like the sound of your piercing gaze as I melt into the darkness of your iris,
as it hits me with light,
your voice is as sweet as ice
to my ears as you call me, “My Mona.”
We stand for hours
separated by corrugated steel,
and I steal a still,
shot,
of you slowed down,
printed into my eyes.
I cannot define,
this time, in my mind
yet calm
in mind,
muted acrylic –
a printed artwork.
I read over these moments.
I flipped through our story.
I cannot define,
Yet I find,
that bees are earlier than birds.
And I prefer,
When you dress me up,
intimately,
tracing me,
I feel,
I see,
it all, a little differently.
Frequently,
I hold your frequency.
Blending hands, in a taxi,
before washed out blue.
Throwing sacred water at trees.
Unpractical though necessary.
A blinking sky,
on our way to a world that loved us.
A trailing muse.
Cold morning air
blowing
on your iced cheek,
like the hum of morning bees,
to the city
rooting for us,
two cities.
Mar 10
Mar 10, 2026 at 3:38 PM UTC
I cannot live on bread,
I need.
Bread keeps me hungry.
I need.
I need love.
I need, I need, I need.
Even the needing sustains me floral and pink.
I need, I need, I need.
I yearn and my skin glistens
like dew flirting with the ever and the green.
Keeping me evergreen.
I need, I need, I need.
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 9:20 AM UTC
I poured it on my face
and over my head
like I was pouring a jar of oil.
Bowing my head, it dripped off me
as if I had poured out pure nard,
olive oil,
myrrh,
out of broken alabaster
on my knees, in tears,
wiping the surface with my hair.
My head stayed bowed
my knees were a thorny crown
on the ground,
I drew near it
and tried to draw it to me
in the palm of my hand
but it moved through my hand
like a ghost
while leaving a wet impression
on the lines of my identity.
Pure, powerful,
it escaped my hold yet stayed with me,
for now I was clean.
Water.
I looked into his face as he reflected mine
back to me.
I was close to this pool because my heart was powdered and purple.
I looked inside the pool and saw my eyes,
red and lived in,
I drew near,
like I was about to sip
or baptize my face
but instead I mumbled a still whisper -
a prayer I wanted no other ear to hear
yet my lips were pressed
on the surface of the pool as if they'd collapsed on an ear;
longing to pour myself whole inside that which I feared,
and I said,
"Water?"
"How do you persevere?"
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 3:34 PM UTC
I'm enamoured with the sight of my toes.
A view of my footprints in beach sand,
footsteps and playing toes.
With flaws,
I flow,
and tiptoe through
hardship and beauty too.
My toes know yoke,
my toes know peace too.
My toes are crevices to my roots.
My steps are shaped and shifting through.
Pink, white and pigmented.
The sun knows your shape.
The sun knows your feelings and kisses you unashamedly.
My life is mapped all over you.
Pale as a constellation beneath the nails.
Pain has married you,
dances with you,
is a kind lover.
An accountable friend -
honest and devoted.
Pain releases you -
you know forgiveness.
You have forgiven and pushed on.
Cushioned on grass,
not afraid of dipping in soggy wet clay,
you leave vases and sculptures along the way.
Artist.
My toes know ground better than I know myself.
My toes know the bliss of intimacy I may never know
or share.
Like a couple whispering in a room of drawn curtains
Intimacy shifting shapes,
shifting paths,
adventure.
Secret.
I crave,
I envy,
I admire.
I love these toes.
I balance myself on my tippy toes.
Jan 31
Jan 31, 2026 at 9:59 PM UTC
There are times I want to call out,
"take me to the place where you are!"
but I don't,
so much I am responsible for,
so much to do,
I've got to keep the lamp burning.
So I keep it burning
even as I am melting.
Jan 28
Jan 28, 2026 at 3:31 AM UTC