i want to tell you all of my secrets.
i'll write them down on the back of a torn up map,
and cram them into a jar for you to set atop your desk and ponder.
something about the way that you speak
sounds an awful lot like all of my walls tumbling down to the ground.
i'd even let you pass the guards,
if you'd just ask,
but you won't.
maybe we could make a trade;
you could carry around my burdens for a bit,
and forget all about yours.
and in return,
i'll hold you the way that your rib cage cradles your heart-
intently,
and with the sole purpose of protecting something important.
at least,
i think you're important.
if only i knew what you think.
but you keep those prized gems to yourself,
thrown about your head in a "shouda-coulda-woulda" past tense.
i just hope you think of me.
as a face with an identity,
and not just as a place to fall asleep.
i'm only boring when they expect it of  me.
so how about we try something new?
let's cut the shakespearean bull-**** and jedi mind-tricks
and just tell each other the truth.
**** poetic justice,
let's cut to the chase:
i'm done chasing cars whose traffic boots have begun to rust.
so dust off your unravelling heart-strings and strike a chord within me,
and maybe then you'll be convinced to sing along.
see,
love songs are for the birds,
love poems are for the lost,
and love itself will always evade me.
prove me wrong.
lace up your boots and run for once.
prove to me that YOU like the hunt,
and that i'm worthy of your crooked arrow's fire.
take my breath away,
with the intentions of leaving it that way,
instead of in hopes of a few hours of restless companionship.
despite popular belief,
worth isn't proven between the sheets,
that's where it's meant to be honored,
addressed,
nourished.
a woman of intelligence is far more exciting
than a dolled-up piece of meat,
and all it takes to catch a good one,
is to try.
i know **** well that i'm worth every single one of saturn's rings,
but i guess i'll wait
and see what you think.

there's such a strange feeling brought in by sunday mornings.
it's as if you can feel the calender resetting,
a groggy haze of transition between one row of boxes and numbers
and the next.
the dates themselves adding line-breaks on type-writers,
molding the ever-changing scripts of our lives.
the day gets claimed for resting and resetting -
we recharge with early beers and late lunches
followed by a hefty dose of sweat-pants.
at least 'round here,
"sunday's best" has never been anything classy.
it's paint-stained denim, muddy boots, and over sized thrift store sweaters.
we don't own church shoes or pressed slacks,
because we've never needed ornate buildings to silently give thanks in.
we need the wind,
and the wild,
and the dirt.
we set out with the intention of getting lost,
for the simple joy of the instant that we find ourselves resurfacing on the face of the map.
we give thanks any time that there's nothing between us and the sky
and our wind-chapped faces are covered in smiles and sun.
desert dwellers need the sun.
we greet her daily,
wildly and emphatically as the frozen layers of earth.
sundays are for defrosting.
we bake beneath grandma's home-made quilts,
and in the arms of good love;
thawing enough to ensure growth without cracking our foundations.
"sunday's best" is just a good place to be.
it's a refreshing state of mind in an augmented pace of time,
where we slow down,
and step back just enough to see what really matters
and what never has.
and when the alarm clock howls like a rabid beast come monday morning,
we'll rise reflective and refreshed;
strengthened up to continue driving forth towards the lives we're living for.

it's all faded two-lanes;
cracking blacktop winding from high hopes to low lives,
the question is: what we're seeking in between.
it's strange to me,
how many days are wasted by the thoughtfully confused
waiting around all day to see what it means...
it doesn't mean anything.
unless you make it.
so climb back into the saddle with your heart set ablaze,
and tear it all down.
shred the scenery to scrapbook confetti
and sculpt the life you've always wanted from the raw earth yourself.
make yourself proud.
and gracious
and elloquent
and kind.
decide for yourself.
rediscover the truths you held dear when you were young,
before they taught you what to think and how to feel.
revert to your innocence and follow your heart,
and the feeling you've had in your gut all along.
paint your own sunset
and moon rise
and everything in between.
make yourself a masterpiece.
be who you've always wanted to be-
**** the social blue-print.
the only expectations you should ever feel obligated to meet
are your own.
make yourself proud for once,
who gives a **** about the crowd.
plow through the rust coated foundations
and bathe them in gold spray paint.
turn your life into the taj majol.
make your heart into the lourve.
and let your soul defy all definitions-
be as free as you've always wanted to be.
you are the gorgeous by-product of thousands of millions of years of evolution;
start acting like it.
ignore those sharp spoken whispers of doubt that flood your mind
at any given time-
you are priceless and magical,
mystical and strange by definition.
welcome to the human race,
but first,
stop running.
park your *** in the fresh cut grass and just breathe.
deep.
smile hard,
blissful and honest,
until your face gets sick of it.
just smile;
it feels so wonderful to be happy.
say thank you,
for EVERYTHING,
and mean it.
who you were yesterday is gone forever,
but who you were today decides what shoes you'll be walking in tomorrow.
be good,
and happy,
and honest.
life itself will return the favor.

an eastern mystic
peddling medicine in the west
pouring holistic healing over sun-soaked lips with every word
magic

fare-faced grinning boy with the same broken heart...
i wanna fix it
with little calloused hands
and miles of fading blacktop dressed in laughter

deliberate steps
forging a trail straight to the stars
built of mead compositional notebooks 
and sentences tied together by hand
a literary fingerprint on a freshly cleaned pane of glass

stardust prophet
moon-beam traveler...
translate the fault lines into tangible fact
fill my flask with daylight dreams 
let's split a glass of imagery and toast to roads yet to be traveled

you are lightning
ripping through the sky at the speed of light
as you tap-dance your way through tall tales
of cowboys
and of hit men
and of strangers faces painted familiar by the dark


they say that time repeats itself
like an unintelligent little girl babbling in the mirror
only so many moments pass
until you're destined to hear the same futile points
for the forth or fifth 
or sixth time

...i've never been like "them"
i say time removes itself from the equation completely
when hearts skip beats to the same rhythmic pattern
of line breaks and voices rising behind a stale microphone
on a dimly lit stage


never fool yourself into believing 
that you were getting what you deserved
when forced to taste the dirt
you are meant to feast on sky
and sky alone will grow you wings

never settle on a good thing when the stars themselves wish you the best

the wind stirs her from her sleep as it tap dances through the leaves,
and once again she finds herself with a hastily rolled joint on the front patio at two a.m.
maybe tonight she'll finally make sense of something.
cursed to the perpetual contemplation of theories she can't even pronounce,
her gaze is fixed to the lights of the night sky.
she want's so badly to join them.
a child sculpted of raw stardust can't rest due to obsessions involving her ancestry.
so the match is struck 
and the dark loosens up 
just long enough for her to remember she's still stuck to the ground;
it's enough to make any celestial being feel worthless.
but she's priceless...
she just doesn't know it yet.
sometimes she swears she can feel the force of the entire universe's sway
tugging on her heart strings,
pulling her in synch with the pulse of all of existence.
she often just dismisses it as vertigo and takes another hit.
she doesn't get it.
the stars burn in the static hum of limitless outreach and await the painstaking instant that they'll finally collide,
maybe even just scrape against one another...
it's lonely up there in outer space.
the planets space themselves strategically to avoid the tug of one another's gravity,
aiming to dodge the speeding bullet of affection and the promise of separation it inevitably brings.
but she's out there in saturn's rings adorning herself in comet's tails and waiting for a show...
stubbornly certain that she couldn't possibly be alone.
not forever, anyway.
she hopes.
telescopes lenses eventually shift,
distorting our self-made image of reality...
we can't place bets on much of anything, anymore.
there's so much to be left invisible,
and mystical,
and made up as we go.
we may be going nowhere,
but we hitch our ride in style.
pretty painted marbles spinning circles on rutted sidewalks dance in tune...
side stepping around a bright star at center stage.
she thinks of herself as just a flea in the wardrobe,
maybe things will stay simple that way.
the roach scorches fingertips,
and she hurls it toward the earth...
drawing her attention back to the ***** parking lot beneath her feet,
and the promise that sleep will bring something new to dream.

her hair is multi-faceted -
it wasn't until recently that she noticed.
one day,
she climbed out of the shower
and looked in the mirror
to see a cascade of the colors of her three favorite beers,
wrapping around her like a robe.
it was the first time in her life that she realized she was beautiful.
ever since,
she's been unstoppable.
now every day is a good day,
even the ones that hurt.
she finally understands that you can't have shadows without the sun,
you can't fear if you've never had fun,
and that it is utterly impossible to love -or be loved- if you don't love yourself.
life is good, again.
she's her own friend, again.
suddenly, she sees everything the way she did as a child.
everything is crystalline and inviting-
the world itself is her own magical kingdom.
with a smile on her face,
she's capable of anything.
she's a true find;
the bar keep who'll keep feeding you drinks long after your cash is all spent,
she somehow manages to see anyone with kind eyes as an old friend...
she feels like she's known everyone for lifetimes.
the only challenge she gives herself anymore,
is to make a smile of every frown.
she just wants someone to laugh with.
to dance with,
to turn everyday into a holiday for.
let her celebrate YOUR life.
and yours, and yours, and yours.
let her make you proud...
to be human,
if nothing else.
let her adorn you in the fractured bones of her oldest stories.
let her weave her favorite songs into your hair.
just stay and play,
at least for the day,
and when she's done with you,
carry yourself a completely different way than you ever have before.
be something new.
try to love yourself even a fraction of how much she loved you before she even knew your name,
and remember to smile.

once upon a time,
a doctor told her that her heart was broken.
a war drum with a worn-out head,
just waiting to bust.
now her nightmares of heart-attacks haunt her at all hours;
she hates knowing that she's destined to beat herself to death.
she's never felt this worthless.
lately,
she's been wondering what drownding feels like,
she never thought it a topic to ponder,
but the water makes her feel so free.
she'd so much rather rest beneath the waves
than sit and wait for her engine to fail.
maybe she should fly more often,
tossing back tiny bottle after tiny bottle
of six dollar whiskey,
fingers crossed that they'll all fall down into the sea.
she'll sink if she tries hard enough.
a heart condition translates directly into
"incapable of loving, or ever being loved"
in her eyes,
so why ******* try.
now she burns bridges like roman candles
and shells out all her cash on any day that rent isn't due;
no point in holding on to what you can't take with you.
she stains her flesh instead.
words she only wishes you'd have whispered in her ears instead of stuffing them into envelopes,
her favorite flower,
and a hawk feather,
for whatever luck she can get.
sometimes,
during her morning cigarette,
she laces up her sneakers and bolts,
as fast as she can in any direction,
just to see if her heart can take the heat of her heavy feet skimming over the street.
the engine in her chest revs loudly,
like the car of a teenage boy.
they're all little boys-
she's a woman.
she's pretty positive that everyone cries at night-
even the dogs and the crickets and the birds.
we've all got nightmares,
hers just happen to seep out and taint the daylight.
what she needs,
is to befriend the monster under her bed.
he can feed on her inner demons and stitch up her heart with his glaring smile,
and hazle eyes.
in turn,
she'll share her bed
and now and then,
he can rest his head on her chest and translate the siren songs of her unsteady pulse.
she needs a ******* friend.
one who always cares instead of a good few who only ocasionally pretend to.
someone who's more than willing to walk a few blocks to dollar beer night,
and braid her hair for her while she yaks in the trash out back.
yeah, something like that.
it's her heart,
not yours.
or yours or yours or yours.
but her's,
and it hurts.
it races all night like nascar rednecks who pointlessly drive in circles for hours.
don't tell her how to fix it,
or not to worry,
or that everything is going to be fine.
it's not.
it's her heart,
and it hurts.