I saw the smoke from the mountains,
Early in the morning sun,
Billowing deep from the trees,
Where the great mountain beast once was.

I saw the smoke from Paul Bunion’s cabin,
Rolling up into the sky,
So when I climb up there tomorrow,
I’ll bring him a great big pie.

And
I’ll never be beautiful for anyone,
Not even for you,
I will never hide my chickenpox,
Grind me to sand, and I'll shout to the wind,
Wash me! Wash me away!

I’ll never pretend that I am pretty for anyone,
Not even for you,
I’ll let my skin dry like the Atacama desert,
I’ll let the harsh mountain storm bite my face,
The eagles eat my flesh on the tower of silence, so
There is nothing left to dream about,
Not even bone dust for the rain,

I’ll fight like gladiators, not to be beautiful for anyone,
Not even for you,
I won’t let the clouds overshadow my scalp,
I’ll pull right now, one by one, every hair follicle,

What you ask me to be is not beauty, it is a butterfly
That flies and flies around a light bulb
Until it dies

A shadow that weaves white nights,
I will not invent myself to be pretty for anyone,
Not even for you,

If you wish to enter my blood,
You have to swim in the imperishable waters,

silence swings over waters as if...
it rehearses its unseen so...
to fill  in the depth of blanks
a stratified time inhabits the landscape
orphic dreams morph into your flesh
the wind collates its courage and rage
like someone who falls into a self
my words bite the shape of a scream
the hunger of love descends language into crumble
the beauty of lungs full of air is misleasing
when I am waiting for silence to miscarry its void

Sprout of a leaf,
listen--
a thousand wings of applause
shatter the quiet,
rising like storm breakers.

Encased in gold resin,
The world we create
Older than you or I could ever say
It knows better than me of sure pain
Demanding your beauty
Still shadow the shame
When I wrote you –
I wrote you a letter today
I was lost in the infinite stretch of your gaze
And I wonder if it ever entered your air
Ever tasted your tongue, ever tousled your hair
Were they were words you would treasure?
Words you would share?
Like a picture, I'm taken
Because I am still there
Encased in your resin,
In the grip of your glare
It is a moment remembered
And I am still there

Gratitude I offer,
To the many brave poets
who have lived,
Loved and let ink hover,
Over and over
Syllables and turns of phrases
Allowing us to let our minds mingle in corners of word mazes,
Inspiring our hearts
To share  —
And move the future forward and fairer.

Just one;
and the crowd disappears.  
Not the noise,  
but the ache beneath it.  

Your robe sweeps  
like the edge of a memory  
too sacred to name,  
too silent to forget.  

I didn’t ask.  
Didn’t shout.  
Just reached,  
as if the gravity of healing  
could be borrowed  
in a breath.  

Blood listens.  
Shame stills.  
Every fracture sings  
beneath skin mended  
by mercy  
I dared not deserve.

You turned.  
Not to scold,  
but to see me,
the me behind the reaching.  

And that touch?  
It was not mine.  
It was yours,  
returning everything  
I didn’t know I’d lost.