In the north there is a man who screams when the waters sing
For he once came cross the banshee of the seaside spring

And in that failing light saw wrapped her pallid strands
Round the whole of her one and sallow pointed hand

To the trunk-grown sword and verdant surcoat 'tween
A phantom defiler, a hanged man, the crime unseen

She sullen moved to mournful wail, deep of soul
But found no purchase in mortal air to extol

For where once was this sad shadow's throat
A cruel sentence had some former blade wrote

In a sick and seeping horror the man did freeze
As the banshee descended towards the trees

At length the water sprang from earth again
His movement restored, bloods color to skin

The greatest terror he recalled in lonesome woe
Is of the dead woman forced to her silent sorrow

What breath he borrows from your question
That he might live between your punctuation
And Death, in its mercy, avert its gaze
A resurrective reprieve if only for as long as to say
He had a predilection for cold sores
For pushing harder than was required and giving more than was needed
When he appears to me, he shares a knowing glance
A promise of explanation to the sudden unanswerable absence
As he moves to speak, and share the elusive truth
I awake
I always wake

Look there to the distant dimpled dunes
Look there to the mix matched mountains
Listen here to the tree tickled tunes
Listen here to the fresh freeflowing fountains
Feel here the mother that's borne us each
Feel here the earth and what it has to teach

The severed canyon split-snakes out beyond my view
Like a hazardous sidewalk God has yet to fix
It would be a nuisance to the strong strided
Or a beautiful scar to the like minded

Do clouds feel bad about the shadows they cast?
Or do they revel in the reprieve from rays they hold?
Do people feel bad about the room they take up?
Or do they remember their impact on others?

The rosebud wind tickles my nose
Or maybe it is my allergies
I have missed the touch of spring

There is an ideal bench under the sign at the end of my street
It seems a peaceful spot, with its deep color and curve
As I pass it daily, I imagine sitting there, lost in thought
About who has wronged me, and how I'd hurt them back
About how the snow of my youth has lost its shape to ice
About how I now find benches at the end of streets to be ideal
But most of all, I imagine sitting there, public made private
The ability to transform the space I occupy into my own
Free of the tectonic worry that I should not be in this place
There is an ideal bench under the sign at the end of my street
It seems a peaceful spot, with its deep color and curve
I will sit there in a day to come, and in peace, observe

Here, the frozen moment, a most precious frame of mind
That in the greatest beauty, and in the finest art
Lies the hidden truth of man, the hardest there's to find
Belonging begins in the bravery to restart

When comes the chance to serve in grace
And complacency shows it's familiar face
The battle begins, the naturally selfish man
I am busy, I am tired, and, I have other plans
Theres but a single thing to think to win
Remember, there is still room in the inn
Often waves the tides and times of life
To wade and wait through seasons of strife
For the mercy of the passerby to see
Today it is you, and tomorrow it is me

As I stand in the shower, shampoo in my hand, I think to myself. If Life and Death were people, would they be friends, enemies, or lovers?

For surely they must be acquainted, having both been present in the first touch of the last second space had to be alone.

Or perhaps it is that same proximity which stills the air between what is given and what must, eventually, be taken back.

Even yet, they may find romance in the reality that impermanence and beauty share the same fleeting tide.

And as I stand in the shower, shampoo in my hand, I realize they are but one movement of the same force which removes and renews.

I feel this first touch somewhere in my head and shoulders.

                       ʙᴇ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ, ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴇᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ
                       ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴇʟꜱᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴅᴏ
                       ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ʏᴏɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ
                       ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ʀᴇꜱᴛᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇʀɢʏ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇꜰʀᴏᴍ
                       ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇʟᴅᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ
                       ʙᴜᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ'ꜱ ʙᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ

Wisdom in water
Unceasing and unbothered
By such little things

Wood older than me
How am I to burn the tree
That did bring me here?

Sponge moss clings to rock
A young jungle to itself
It is here for now

Dead branch, lively tree
Old green gives way to yellow
The cycle anew

Alpine autumn stream
Erosion's intervention
Before human hands

Streaming lazily
With no real place to get to
Water's gravity

The question comes again
Overcast, the clear abstain
A desire to doubt the strain
Clouds without the mercy of rain

Gray and roiling waves
Of both cloud and sea
How quickly the tide turns
When you don't look to see

The water changes
Prepared, the matter reformed
Steady in the storm

White noise, black night
Snow is falling
Enough is right

I am not a morning person
But I hold fondness for early birds
I love the idea of living in the city
But I also kind of dont
On one hand you have traffic and parking
And on the other, walking and watching

I commute by train in the mornings
I early bird watch the people passing by
Listening to podcasts of her breakfast cereals as I go
At 7:30 I take the B train to her jawline
Before catching the A train cross town to her smile
By 8:15 I wait behind her tongue for her to sing the early bird song of speaking only to me

Speaking only to me, being the only time I feel worth speaking back
Speaking back, I say we should do this again tomorrow
Tomorrow we will walk, and we will watch
Watch as people hustle bustle hurry home
Home is wherever it is that we may be
B train, I must go, I will return in the morning

There must always be a first flame - the initial kindling
The first twig to sing the song of burning
The summer dry oak tree origin of all subsequent ember
Call me ashdancer, smokeshaper
For I sing the tongue of spontaneous combustion
Unbridled and indiscriminate consumption
Your words are lightning to my August grass hill
And I hope to learn to love the purge of the burn
I hope to learn to love

If you asked me to describe how I know God answers prayers
I would point you in the direction of honeybees

Because nobody so unassuming, with so monumental an impact, can come from any source other than divine

For is it not the place of the bee to buzz by plants and people, taking pieces of each to the next?

I see the still pollinated goodbyes of every former flower in your honeybee helloes

And honey, if your hello is an answered prayer, consider me cross contaminated

It is not until your petals have gone without pollen that you appreciate the sweet nectar of their presence

Hello honeybee

Stay as long as you need, then perhaps a little longer

I have an off-again, on-again relationship with permanence

Even so, I have been party to many pictures in my lifetime

Each thousand word tattoo, a spur of the moment snapshot, scrawled across my skin

Your thousand words looks a lot like wearing a red stuffed octopus named Richie on your head like a hat

The Cowboy and the Cephalopod both agreed this frame wasn't big enough for the both of them, so they agreed to compromise

I laugh imagining the world in which you are a marine biologist by day, and a hair stylist by night

I laugh imagining the world in which the words 'you' and 'permanent' are among the thousand on each hand

I like to play a game of tick tack toes in your too small snow shoes

You like to play a game where you pretend not to love it

I like to pretend like we dont know how to turn these couch cushions into Schrodinger's box

You and I together - at once both alive to each other and dead to the world

Snowflakes and eyelids both fall softly as we re-watch, for the third time, your favorite sitcom

Your fingers sign syllables with mine that we have a long season ahead of us

You stupid, stubborn boy
You thin lipped, thick skinned, too tall trouble maker
You brain broken record, record, record romantic
You can not live between the lines of her words

Just because vowels and vegetables both start with v, doesn't mean that she is healthy for you

Just because you know how to read her hieroglyphs, doesn't mean that they were meant for you

You can not chase the shape of her echoes into the person you want her to be, like some rosy cheeked run on given a pulse

A pulse, a tick, a drum, a beating

Self administered prescriptions, trying to find her commas in the pauses of others peoples punchlines

Let yourself cool off from the shade of the period that is her loving somebody else

Let yourself know that love is just a word, and twisting words into something beautiful is all you know that you are good at

Sanctuary
Looks a lot like four walls and a bed
Sleepless
Sounds a lot like get out of my head

I shiver in the streetlight of my final now.

Right now, simultaneously being the last time I wait to sleep,
And the first time I fear its arrival.

It is not that I fear being forgotten.
It is that I fear never doing something worth remembering.

A deathbed is too fragile for the hard truth that the last door closed to me will be my casket.

The streetlight flickers.

Peace with this last present is a timeless question,
And I have given it pieces of me I have yet to give myself.

The streetlight flickers.

It will have to be enough.

And what does it mean when the rush of the fall comes with the acceptance that you could - and probably will - crash, but you leap regardless?

And what does it mean when her silence is the second loudest sound after your heartbeat?

And what does it mean when you realize you've never dreamt of having one?

And what does it mean when you have the same dream again and again with different faces?

And what does it mean when her face is the form, and the form is the dream?

And what does it mean when you realize hers is just the latest to fill the form?

And what does it mean when you wish the hurt of the dream over the truth of the day?

I have stared long enough at my ceiling that I confuse it with the back of my eyelids

I have named each of the tree branch textured constellations found there

My point is, I do not know how to talk about the rabbit hole without tumbling down it

If there were any paint left to dry, the blanks fired from my eyes would make for the most curious graffiti

The word restless comes to mind, but it erroneously implies that being asleep is the same thing as feeling comfortable when alone

I have fallen deep into the back of my head

My eyes, a distant stained glass window, casting the rainbow bridge back to where I need to be

This is the way

I got the cricket ticks and lip licks.
The toe taps, arms stretch, feelin' sick.

Shaking leaves from the spine, butterflies.
Figure skatin', occipital, barely making eyes.

Shortsighted. A quick flick assessment.
First contact: Human. Nervous. Got the scent.

Quick quips. Heartbeat backflips. Got a smile.
Keys out, locked in. Gonna be here a while.

Knots released, check the shoes, still tied.
Second contact: Side-eyed. Open sky wide.

Comfortable. Swappin' pictures, open air.
This here is base camp. Light the flare.

Light retreating. Sun is dipping.
Soda empty, but still sipping.

Steady handed, still footed, defiant
Listen for the cricket ticks,

silent.

I would follow you to the ends of the earth
Mostly because I have no choice

I would drape unapologetic in the dark of the dance floor as you held your first taste of testosterone

That clammy hand costume with buttons too big to blame your fumbles on anything else

I would soak your sunlight and take none for myself, growing as big, and tall, and brave as you do

Mother said milk makes for strong bones
Strong bones make for easy outlines, like, look at me
Take my picture and remember you left a mark

Joy died today.
That was the name of my grandma
- Is the name of my grandma
I'm not sure which tense to use

Her name, a homemade bread, sticks sweet to the tongue

Her personality, an open palmed hug to the child's name she cant remember anymore.

Her life, a monument to what it means to be kind and to be good

She does not own her name anymore

It has been given to the warm bread
It has been gifted to grandchildren
It has been remembered by those who remain

It has been remembered

Joy still lives, just, in other ways.

I play a game of hypotheses.
I am winning.

The star speckled ceiling asks,
"How will you know?"

I answer,
"Her grocery lists will win Pulitzers - a novel I can't help but read in one sitting."

The constellation laughs uneasily, knowing that it will move before I do.

The tree topped curtain creaks,
"What will you say?"

I answer,
"Too much, never enough, probably both - your mystery is the only one worth solving."

The canopy bristles. I do not know what to make of it.

I play a game of hypotheses.
I await the next question.

This is the way I deal with it
The venom between the lungs which sinister stirs on the shortened breath of shaky self-esteem
The poetic palpitation pleading please write your wrongs before they putrefy
This is the way I deal with it
It is when words dry up that the ink bleeds
Dance around your feelings, call it a campfire
Let others at least roast with the remnants of yours
This is the way I deal with it
For some it is to light the fire
For others, to follow the smoke

Evening skies trickle out the tailpipes of the cars navigating freeways
Painting the air in deepening hues of curiosity made color

What if I just keep driving?
How far will I make it?

Night slips in the back door, as Day exits the front
I can not see beyond a hundred feet
I do not remember the next curve of road
I am not sure where I am going

But do I need to be?

Autumn coolly glides on the coat tails of whistled winds and trees shedding summer coats
She says she doesn't like peanut butter
Unaware of the basket of PB&J lying on the table
Does she change colors too?

Tombstones tell tall tales if you know how to listen
Stories marked by the ignorance of 'death is not here for me yet'
Billboards of birth and final breath
Anything exists in the hyphen
The too long but never long enough pause before the end

When you've got a brain like mine
It holds onto your words like life rafts
Adrift on a sleepless sea for weeks at a time
They swirl and fester in black ink cauldrons
Double double all the toil and most the trouble
The fire still burns amidst the rubble

Love makes a home in the hurt of the heart

Birds chirp outside my window
I guess it is morning now
What was once the call of dawn
Is now the daunt of dusk

The unspoken hurt holds heavy
On my tired timid tongue

I hate this feeling.
This wake up from a good dream in a bad mood feeling.
This you'll never be better than the foot you shot yourself in feeling.
This gnawing loneliness, teased by your brain feeling.
This dream and reality are as far apart as your imagination and your imagination is nothing if not endless feeling.
This ruins the day before it even begins feeling.
This if I knew how to cry I'm afraid of what the waterworks might give life to feeling.
This silent, silken feeling.
I hate this feeling.

I dream about how we would conquer jungle gyms and grocery stores.
Anything, an adventure in how not to grow up and instead grow in.
It hurts to wake.

You will want to tell her everything
And you will
But it will be in wordless ways
Passing by, just below the surface
Shallow enough to be just audible
Deep enough to be confused for something else
Faint enough to live in the time between blinks
Real enough, but never quite real enough

You tell stories of your past. Am I yet one?

Our visit to your playground makes children of us both

Infatuation
Or maybe an infection
I am stuck on you

If you should love me
You will learn the meaning of
What it is to live

People are composed of little bits we can not do not see
Bits in baskets handed out, these are the bits that make up me
I don't know what you'll do with em, but I want to trust
Mine in exchange for yours, my stardust for your stardust
A fair and even trade, an open sentence plea
Please be good to the parts you can not do not see