Find community amongst the dives
where the masses drink
like sailors,
sink like ships.
The wayfarer's watering hole, where
spirits stain scripture
written on bar napkins
and patrons serve
as a quiet reminder,
that I sold my megaphone
and bought a butane lighter.
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 9:05 PM UTC
In these moments you were nothing but magic
-- gypsy dancing from suburb to suburb,
-- stripping yourself of your shoes,
-- feeling the earth directly beneath your feet;
Whispering secrets that kiss the soft-singing lips of the wind,
the elements of my earth
and a story I can only try to tell.
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 8:50 PM UTC
When we try
to hide
the ghosts
that know
our lives,
most the time,
where silences lies
they talk
Jan 3, 2021
Jan 3, 2021 at 7:34 PM UTC
Don't worry the weather, my wayward woman,
for the seas are much calmer this close to the beach.
I don't know where you are, or where you are going,
but roses will greet you upon your arrival.
I've read all your postcards from places you've travelled;
Penned with slang you pick up in the cities you stay.
I've packed up and took to a road of my own
-- just figured I'd write you to tell you I'm safe.
My sights have consisted of stars that we've counted;
Dust that bustles so freely beneath me;
Castaway houses with rooms full of boxes;
And people like you, who find comfort in change.
But I wouldn't mind a box we could live in --
different from these we've decided to leave.
But the past of a road paves the path that goes,
and I'm starting to see that a box is a dream.
So I'll dream a dream just the way you would dream it
-- of luggage and boxes of things you'll be keeping --
to always remind you of what we have chosen;
And that to be living, means constantly going.
Apr 21, 2020
Apr 21, 2020 at 1:50 PM UTC
If you don't believe
that the world can turn
into a Hobbesian-state,
then find a wall
& stare at it until it hurts.
You'll notice
that the paint isn't dry
& the picture will change
with a single blink,
fade with dry eyes
& breathe when you want it to.
You'll see a wall
can be many things;
It can move in a dream
if you make it,
or drape itself in mirrors
& make you infinite,
although trapped,
staring at a wall
& thinking of someone else,
but only seeing yourself
forever
in every direction.
Aug 8, 2017
Aug 8, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC
Fall
*When you see something beautiful, quiver
before it.* The Autumn leaves were hosting
a masquerade that laid a shawl over
your face. I said hi and you didn’t say
anything back, which made me feel full
though I hadn’t eaten a thing all day.
I thought it was sweater weather, but you
proved me wrong; wearing nothing more than skin-
tight jeans, Gladiator shoes, and a thin
blanket to keep you warm. And you made me
feel it might be wrong to touch your hand, so
I did nothing more than watch you watch me.
You, so poised, it was like you were sleeping.
I knew I needed to say something but
I felt I shouldn’t. Or even ask you
some off question like Where’d the summer go?
And you suddenly looked cold with pastel-
colored leaves painting themselves on your skin.
So I told you that seasons change and you
reminded me I’d see you again soon.
Winter
When I see you, I quiver before you.
I feel different, but you have not changed
a bit. I took a much different route,
skating barefoot across the lake because
the cold made me feel alive until hard
snow reminded me that I was close
to the last place I remembered winter
was beautiful. My breathing ceased when
I noticed it melting snowflakes that were
aching to land atop your seemingly
wind-burnt nose. You could never change, could you?
Which always made me surprised to see you.
Your smile was frozen on your face, which I
saw as a façade. Your blue lipstick and
bleach-blonde hair told me you hadn’t even
gotten to know yourself before the breeze
came and erased the remnants of the Fall
and made your sweater start to crack like ice,
or spider-veins around your shoulders. I’ve
never seen anything quite like it. I
wish I could have told someone. Anyone.
Spring
I feel like you could have forgotten me
though I still like to think you are thinking
what I’m thinking even though that might not
always be true. I lay down in my bed
counting neon stars that travel into
my window and out my bedroom door. I’m
starting to believe you were never real.
While I was gone, you were only resting,
thinking of Spring and wishing it could be
just like winter again. Today I saw
a girl with a veil of flowers in
her hair, reminding me that her flowers
would soon wither in warmth, but yours will be
forever frozen for me. Everything
can always be just as I recall it.
Or at least I hope. I miss you, don’t I?
I don’t want to, but I have to see you.
I start to remember things that may not
even be true: The way you would furrow
your brow at me when you were upset with
something, or always act like someone was
watching us. I guess that I can only
know you as well as I am supposed to.
Summer
*Beauty is Terror. When I see something
beautiful I quiver before it.* The
frozen figs clasping small snow-topped berries
have melted, leaving behind rotting shades
of brown, which convince me I could be lost.
Everything is different. Everything
is different—the words get caught in my
throat, making me choke when I see you. I
can see your eyes are elsewhere, and though you
have always been quiet, it used to make
more sense. Now I feel I have to explain
myself. Or just say something. Anything.
"Where’d the winter go?" I say. And you say
nothing back, showing me that seasons change
and we’ve changed with them. The smile on your face
has thawed, and my tears can’t freeze on my cheek
to remind me that I’ve cried for a girl
who had not even told me her name. But
I could never blame you for that which I
feel partly responsible. You were lost
when we met, and I could have brought you back
or told someone where to find you. But I
did not. And that truly terrifies me.
I wanted to tell you I’d see you soon,
but I see much less of you than I had
before, in the winter, and I knew you
would be gone by the next time I came back.
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 3:17 AM UTC
Staring at cracks
can keep you
from seeing with
clouded judgement
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 12:25 AM UTC
I saw a car burning on the side of the road;
Two passengers and police standing around it,
like a campfire;
I'm not sure if someone was still inside
…But I saw a gap in traffic
and turned away,
knowing I could drive faster down the 405 --
if only for a couple seconds --
and look in my rearview mirror
having forgotten where the smoke
was coming from.
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 1:59 AM UTC
She breathes in deep,
like holding her breath
until her next fix.
She doesn't sleep,
but daydreams,
harmonizing with lullabies
You've had memorized
since
you first met her.
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 8:26 PM UTC
I packed up and went to Montana --
a place that I'd seen once before.
Then to New Orleans, Louisiana,
by way of 90 South and skipping tolls.
I lost my logic in their lingos --
from Back-country boys to French Creole.
This gypsy man, he needs no intro --
he arrives, and then, in time, he goes.
Drunk and ****** but still standing,
like Van Damme on death row.
This silence is a grave reminder,
that death will meet me down this road.
In time, I'll find I've made my sorrow,
but I still hear you crying close behind.
Since you're the reason for my roaming,
maybe you're what it is I need to find.
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 8:24 PM UTC