i remember me and you, the you who is underneath
the failing heart, smoke brained; the sister dunking you,
the you who took me fishing.
and helped me rescue a butterfly on the beach
whose wings were wet and was half buried
in the sand...you held it in your fumbling hands
until it could move again
and we watched it fly away. if it wasn't for us,
that butterfly would have died.
now you are
the butterfly; you sit in God's hands.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 7:57 PM UTC
i feel faint.
actually i feel the solid parts of myself seem to be
dripping away;
a dog could lap my sanity off the floor.
someone really fainting
could wash their hair in my skin;
someone scared
could slip in me and fall to who knows where.
"hey cathy it's dan"
they are solid, also known as
not fainting.
in a cafe in oklahoma! surprise!
are they home there with each other?
well it is known...they are known.
we are not.
we are faint: some
glimmer on the pearls of her teeth.
disappearing.
someone wearing cowboy boots
has never ridden a horse...
how is it the world has come to
this?
sad, fainting
everything boiling in simmering water
everything good boiling
everything good is leaving home
for the coast of faint stardom
faintly singing stars...
among them
she has a humble heart.
somewhere, God paints a figure
painting a figure -
up on a podium
is a new heart -
it is small.
faintest heart beat.
an even fainter kiss,
goodbye.
is that faint wave in the distance
really
a good-bye?
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
on most days
i feel like i don't fit in
in a daze
in-side the lonesome house
power to get out
out-side i don't fit in
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 2:13 PM UTC
i can hear deafening screams
the outside nighttime calls out
and flashes disguises the moonlight
pulls the cloak over our eyes and
calls itself daytime
for a picture of that blue sky.
only it's the middle of the night
and a neighbors drunken boyfriend
has left the door unlocked
and unhinged and screaming
open
so all the animals can flee out
while the insects
trickle
in.
and this is where we make our home
on the outskirts of dysfunctional
bordering loony
keeping the balloon tied down
by threads on our tent stakes in the ground
and even those move
campsite to campsite, past adventure and
future chaos - excitement
lingers
in the carnivorous blows of midnight winds
pleading us all stay inside, cocooned
has me begging for company
within my room; reminding me home
is the thing that never leaves the soul
once she's here.
is the echo
that the scary but empty thunder
trails behind in the noiseless spaces.
yet the sound of patter on the concrete
not even a samurai sword could swing through
like running naked and exposed
through wet grass lawn and
prodding danger
with a skinny stick stabbing marshmallows
to mend the wound
that lightning brings
like when everything hurts
that the light in her eyes
sees what we are trying to hide
sees and does not question
knows and does not cower
accepts and does not judge
the tower
of beckoning searching power
is as mystic as the magic behind
the truth that its miraculous we're still here
beating chambers of our hearts to open
into that stormy night
and beam our ships back home
like bearing wedding rings
that will only officially make us wives
to bruise our loyalty with kung-fu
and pirating
but we will make that wreckage
into battered art and take fear
into our shaking arms
swaddle its rain soaked face
in warmth
teach it love
consists of way more than two parts
whisper
that every ghost has its dance
every bull has its muscle and its horn
and every soul
has its retreat into the unknown
yet it spills grace
to grab it by the throat
scream there's still hope
and stand up toward
the blackout of a thunderstorm
ringing
like the doorbell might break down
and she would rush in
to swaddle doubt once again
against the cradle of her belly
to sing: *shh, hush, now...
it's me, i've got you.*
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 4:11 AM UTC
this is the last call
before the end of this.
remember how her fingers
used to look
gently twirled within
the curly cord of connection
speaking heavenly
through the wires
where birds make their
perch.
remember how she looked
lying naked in your arms;
when you slip
you are obligated
to redial.
you have come this far.
dialing numbers
in the inbetweens
of feelings.
they are not fleeting.
but for some time
have rested
somewhere under her armpit
unaware.
but it is too late now.
are you braced to say
goodbye?
will there be good in your
life?
how far will you be from home
without her in those
arms?
dialing numbers in between
sneezes.
convulsions, and sobs;
you are leaving.
why cant you seem to
hang up the phone.
the sneezes come in threes;
you say goodbye
to freedom.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
the last piece of tree
before he leaves for the
night.
somewhere in a forest
she falls asleep
the only whisper
in her ear
the sound of her fears
and the wind between
her legs...
calling them.
they are calling them,
home.
somewhere,
God paints a figure
painting a figure, naked
like the new dawn
up on a podium
is a new heart.
it is small.
he leaves and the
crisp red of autumn
brushes his holy ankles
as he walks down the street
.
the cars seem weird there.
but the leaves seem right.
she
is in the forest.
somewhere, boots come
together to tread
on stage
to break glass
and announce: something
has been made.
he says he wants
to hold it,
but they both shy away.
she is brave.
the wrap around the page
keeps her sane
when the whispers
turn to howling
screams.
she is in the forest
of her dreams,
yet still
she scours
for a way to leave.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
what a game being played
I feel the strings
not yet fine tuned to my soul
stretching
they want to be taut
to be taught
to step away
from hurt, loss, happiness
none of it is mine
I am separate.
outside of this experience
there is laughter to be had.
of course there are feelings to feel
and things blockading my clear canvas but
outside of this
there is time to learn
things to teach
there is wisdom to be taut
so the events of nonlinear, wavy days
can pass, as it all must.
greater opportunity
to uncover the self and harness
the only distinct power that one has.
nothing
is forever.
but it happened and there is time
to make it all happen.
understand it will never happen
that way
again.
we are all going.
I don't want to be left behind and I don't want
to leave anything behind.
we are all alone.
but that doesn't have to hurt us
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
i can feel that i don't belong here.
feel it in their stares
their "airs" of "wisdom"
sat there the first couple days
feeling twisted
in my ways
and a whole lot more
than my gut
felt like puking.
felt like extracting
the pointy smiles
porcelain fingers of humanity
a constant war
with my painted skin.
if it is a sin
to condemn and judge
a brother
tell me with a smile
and a hand on that book
how so much hatred
and resistance
hides behind their
lash plumped eyes;
their porcelain hearts.
beating far
to the beyond that i'd go
if they could know
to accept like me.
i'm learning to uncurl
my foiled toes to the world
tread with the tips of my fingers
molding my identity, a print
the sharpest laser couldn't forget.
cast my rusty skin to the sky
so i could show them
we are brother
derived around one another
a formula.
a formula skewed
for porcelain mates turning out doll faces
on the conveyor
belt.
we are moving too fast.
i can feel that i don't belong here.
i can't feel their warmth.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 9:22 AM UTC
i think you are pretty great.
give a lot of things
the capacity
to be really freakin great
when you let them.
the world is
a personification
of your perception.
and i think you are pretty great.
i wanna be pretty great too.
so i decide that i am.
i am pretty great too.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
this is a trick.
the ghosts of the past
are not gone.
sweeping smoke
beneath their doormats
whispering, "get in"
within their smiling teeth.
they are talking
to my rubber face.
happy to be learning to say no,
i can contentedly and stubbornly
say "are you crazy?"
and walk away.
this is something
i never would have been able
to do before.
i was never good at knowing
when indulgence
under the surface
was for pleasure
or to reverberate even further
into the echoes of pain.
notice the easy grace
in the red flag painted morning
warning some
of the coming rain.
tell them
i am typing this poem on a
phone screen
walking into a building
supposed to fill me with knowledge.
tell them
that some of these people
took in the lonely smoke
wandering around
in the night
looking for a warm mouth;
they are high today.
tell them
that some of them
don't need the bitter whip
of substance
to substitute for beauty.
tell them
i have walked away;
and let them know
that i
am the happiest that i have ever been.
~
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC