I eye
these dreams that dance
like puppets on a broken string
In my head
a purple morning mist descends
Like fingers unfurling, over the valley
the valley that raised me, the rolling hills
a dream to look out my bedroom window
as a child in a swirl of ivory and pink pillows
I dare to recall these simple pleasures
to string those images with the puppets I meet
in my new city, grid city
under ground bars, graffiti, speaking only on
liquid courage, drunk on the scent he seeps
some feathered beings
in my mind fornicate
too dark, too much ink on his arms
and not enough on the page
I can see where the valley lives
within his body
hear the purple morning mist in his voice
riding one long exhalation of breath
this thick beating of my heart
some clawed animal is snarling
in my chest, prowling back, forth
he’s asking to see my childhood bedroom
the swirl of ivory and pink
so far has only had
six visitors, and none
ever stayed too long
his gaze lingers, his eyes, prismatic
all I need to do
is open the door just a sliver
just enough for him
to fill the room with light,
strangulation, the council in my mind heaves for breath
for the hours we are together
I am brought back, pressed here, and ****** forward
so
so, I marvel at my tenderness, at the sweetness of his lies
when a him becomes a hymn
how long can you sing the tune
before your throat runs dry
moon wash blue tint soft shadows writhe
river sway trees bend wind bellow shiver sigh
and come the burst of day
what feels like an open wound
feels like a new patch of skin
feels like a bruise that is fading, but still pulsating with a persistent
kind of loneliness
my body is a zoo for all of the animals
I have collected over the years
my breath a haven for orphan
thoughts, caught in the wisp
of his half hearted grip.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
It was only a moment of passion. It was only the passing of time. There was only a glint and a sigh. There was the fall and then the release. There was nothing in between. It was just the idea of a dream. It is about the awareness of oneself in connection to another. It was just support from another breath. It was like magic. It was like a storm. It was only a thrill to be someone’s own. Another person. Another you. Another day in the shadow of truth. Another rhyme. Another lie. Another well gone stone cold dry. You run in the present. You think of the past. You look to the future. Nose against glass. I find myself spilling my guts to the nearest person who is willing to hear. I only blinked and found myself in the crux of another year. I caress my demons. I ****** my fears. (Before you sit, think that those who have your back could also plunge a knife into it.)
I awake to find the sun seeping into my living room underneath the linen curtains. It was only a new day. It was only the refuge of the morning. It was only the smoky curl of jasmine tea up your nostrils. It was only a giant elephant in the room. But you sip and sigh. You think of life and how it is only a matter of time
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
I can’t promise you anything,
I can’t promise that I won’t wake up and want to move away from you,
I can not tell the future, I am here, with you,
now, in the moment, in our bed.
Warming my cold feet against your warm skin,
I run my fingers down the bridge of your nose.
The room is bathed in light, we are bathed in light,
this is what counts, knowing
that this moment is pure.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
That earth spirit
black, dark, flame flickering at the end of the tunnel
i appreciate our ancestors who took care of the soles of their feet
that feet rooted to the earth
that spirit rooted within the body underneath the skin
the soul is not separate from the body
butoh cries out in the darkness for a dance
there is a silent scream
then a piercing sound, you see a Woman's body as she convulses on the ground
you notice the beautiful tendons and muscles in the back and thighs of this one male dancer
Ohno's hands are veiny and paper thin and utterly divine the way it ripples
butoh spirit to the ground and I find my journey for that way of life
starts with taking care of the soles of my feet
Duende and that color black
one step and you won't come back
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 9:03 PM UTC
Where is my home?
*I do not think home is a house,
Home is anywhere I feel most at peace*
I like listening to the blues
(bear this in mind,
a true friend is hard to find
don’t mind
people
grinning in your face)
*Son house singing by himself
Clapping without rhythm
Just him and his voice and his hands and his heart*
Whatever happened to that girl last year?
Oh, we grew apart
(I don’t understand
people who throw away “I love you"
or even worse;
“love you”
as if they could not bear
to attach themselves to the claim)
Asked to choose: heavy or light?
*I hold a weight in my hand,
but then I grow muscle*
(I am strong enough to hold the world on my shoulders)
O mio amico
let me know
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
All these last four days of March I walked past the lighted church shivering in the unrelenting cold the wind bit my cheeks all up and down 9th avenue these last four days of Easter week
there is a knot at the center of me that holds all of the strings in my body
and then there is this rising in me that propels me through eighty blocks until 5 in the morning
until the sun ray glistens a golden sheen on the mirrored side walls of mighty towers in the city of those who never sleep
this morning in a morning voice I hurl my name into the silence
I will have this city in all of its honks chatter and chirps
All these last four days of March I tightened the knot but loosened the string all these last mornings in a morning voice in March I rose with my heart in my throat a line on my lips and a tingling in my feet
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC
Yes, there is something
so satisfying
about carrying a Degas print
on the surface of my purse
around New York City
Toting the tote
clutching it to my side
a prize
somewhere from across the street
it catches the eye of a stranger
who has a special affinity
for impressionist painters
ballet dancers in pastel colors
And for a moment
we meet
and for a moment
he envies the purse
so close to me
we dance a special dance
our eyes dance
to and fro
back and forth
to meet or not to meet
and then he answered the question
running across the street and down the stairs
towards a subway train
his skinny frame
swallowed up by the stairs
This one
this poem
this poem on a Friday evening
wasn't much about anything at all
but it is still worth noting
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
You wander down the hallway
Feeling something shiver inside of you
You wonder what this feeling might be
And suddenly an image of his face
Pierce your corneas
A second later
He is there
And when you pass in the hallway
He looks at you sideways
Widens his eyes.
You furrow your brow
Lift the corners of your lips
Tilt your head
You mention how you always see him in this hallway
He considers you. Then.
He says it is God’s will
You get the wind knocked out of you
You know that it shows on your face
He dismisses you
But not before you say that you agree
That it is God’s will
You take your casual leave
Calling him by his nickname
Stepping into the elevator
You remember he calls himself a liberal
You hug yourself
You wonder if he sees his God in you
You remember he was born on Palm Sunday
You chuckle to yourself
You walk past your roommates
You feel their eyes on your back
You sit down and eat your dinner
You stand at the window
You watch the buildings bleed onto the streets
Manhattan swirls underneath you
There are points of light on little moving objects
The cars and the people
The colors and the lights
The smoke and the sky
The city pulsates, the city snarls
Eager for you to take the streets
You gaze out your window
And so, you decide, it is
It is God’s will and just exactly who
Are you
To deny it?
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 1:34 AM UTC
There are times like these
When there is a sudden downcast of rain
When the apartment is filled with sunlight and quiet
When I am alone and listening to the silence between everyday noise
that I miss being with you.
At the theater, I sat next to a woman,
That smelled like your skin,
That sort of dusty, musky, primal scent
Right after the thickest of heat,
Under the sheets
She reeked of it.
And there I was
Torn to the marrow
As the dancers leap and twirl
Thrash their bodies about
To the strains of Nina Simone
As I close my eyes,
I can only see your fingers, but even that is enough
*Jazz baby piano baby silhouette slender dark on the red curtain baby sax baby speaking of a dream falling further and further the room is hot and stuffy and smells like musk like dust and like him like his body jazz baby like the hollow of his chest jazz baby like the space behind his ears jazz baby long gone back home is my home jazz baby no more but forever will you be with me crave him because he is the first and only jazz baby you will ever have
don’t forget he left you because there was no touch
no feel
just a rush
into a push
into a ******
a shove
The back beat accent of his love*
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 1:11 AM UTC
today I ate
a chocolate croissant
and thought
of you
how you
would eat it
in two
bites
stains
on your
fingertips
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 1:53 AM UTC