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I was born a carpenter

I have been patching holes
in the walls,
putting beams back in place
so that the whole building
does not crumble inward,
the way a dying star does,
all fire and dust
in empty space

my hands are tired
from holding up
the weight of my world
with these rusted tools

maybe the cracks
will let some light in

when we sleep
you wake me gently
to kiss me
tell me I'm beautiful
moon as our witness

that itself is a dream
I never want
to wake from

For my love 🤍
I feel lonesome hands approaching mine
to walk me through the desert.
I tense my arms against the open night sky
which cannot be pushed away.

I want you to love my grey skies,
my pensivity that rolls across mountain ranges -
the same to me as sunshine igniting streams.
Just a different lens
through which my creature plays with light.
She is elemental
and sloughs skin off the earth like lava flowing
into the ocean to close its eyes.
I'll eat my own tail
to discover what I already know.
You call me "honey"
you call her "honey"
you call us "honey"
are we a hive
ready to be plundered
a treat to be
ripped apart
feasted on
did you think we
would we all taste
so sweet on the tongue
did you think
none of us
would sting

feeling down
spun out
like a candy cloud
waiting to be

I change shapes
With the moon
A pearl of white
A crescent smile
An empty shell
To hide in until the sun
Rolls in to shine on me

So many “road stories”
from the Odyssey, and Kerouac, to Augustine.
Each rich in emotion and spirit
most of the stories
have the hero hitched to a fellow traveler
to bathe the soul in word and mood
to throb with the music.

I have recurring dreams.
I’m in a hotel looking for an elevator
can’t find my floor or room
or can’t find my car downtown.
I wander streets, and lots.
Are there road stories hidden in these dreams?

Why do I trip, fall
stay misplaced and lost
find only
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