jesse only smiles when he means it.

nowadays, it takes a needle
to get the boys and girl
around the streetcorner high,
but all jesse needs
is an average girl with a pretty mind.

his timid mouth and crooked teeth
is the prettiest treasure a person could find.

you told me to stop chasing,
but you didn't say to give up.
since then i have stopped
clawing my way through the galaxies
to get to you--

instead, i hooked myself to the last star
you painted your name on
(and i will never stop waiting there
for you to return).

i can't dive right in anymore-
i gave up baby steps
when i thought life
was about taking chances,
but i take it back

i can't do this anymore

i need somebody to guide me slowly
so i don't choke,
because i'm terrified of drowning now
after all the times i've been
held under for too long

(thank you for knowing this
and keeping me afloat)

Life is a skin disease, and I am the finger-nail's will pressed into scratching.
Life is the electronic vein under the skin of Juana's Salvese quien pueda.
Life is the loop of a record or the needle's point or the vinyl ridges

and I play and hear, and I see and taste and touch.

I feel light pass through my skin and am projected.
Life is the wall or the reel or the reacted film,
but I am the light.

I am the music.
I am the skin.

And I am the finger-nail's will
pressed into scratching.

public void PanicAttack(Person me){

if (!Life) return null; //Please note that no one actually dies from panic attacks! Not even me!

increaseHeartRate();
increaseBreathRate();
decreaseBreathVolume­();
setSkin("Flush");
setThoughtStream("Dear God I'm going to die. I've got to get out of here; I've got to get out of here; I've got to get out of here.");

PanicAttack(me);

}

noise falls away in colorful strokes
to reveal the solid backdrop of silence
a glaring white canvas with unprovoked audacity
I turn away, but find my nose pressed
against the same blank page
in frantic movements I look up, down, around
a white prairie surrounds me, deep as the horizon

your hair is time
your thighs are song
your nose is grace
your scent is morning
your eyes are praise
your mouth is prose
your soul is home

when I die
I do not ask that you surround my body with clay soldiers in the depths of the dirt
I ask only for you to lay me down in the grass
and construct over me a monument of your words

I ask for you to speak of me as I was unable to speak of you
for I can not articulate your presence past the word love
see, my vocal cords cannot adequately express the way I feel about you
the best I can do is replace the ink of my pen with the blood of my heart
and splatter it upon the page

you know, its times when you’re there, and i’m here
that my mind fills with your thoughts
that my elbow refuses to bend because it misses your shoulder
that I pick a flower, press it to my nose, but still smell only you

its those times, when this page, is all I have of you
so instead of folding it into a paper boat and sending it down the river
I write words upon it
I write how much I miss you — and then I send it down the river

for I know that the mouth of the river is your favorite place
that you love to catch things just before they reach the open ocean
just as you caught me, before I sailed off without direction

you stopped me, you handed me a compass,
and then you climbed right onboard yourself
and we faced the open ocean together

so when I die
I ask that you speak of our journey
speak of what we learned about love’s tendency to forget the cardinal directions
so that the compass of my soul points neither here nor there
it points solely and unwaveringly to you

I held out my hand hoping for someone
An unexpected grasp to be received.
But for now
We weep
Listen to grass
when it hushes to trees
and for a second I am silent
You blink.
For a second my thoughts pause
and my finger remains on the button
frozen
For a second we stop...
For a second we discover time.

She came in like a lion. Long wild hair everywhere, loud and outlandish. She was outspoken and shameless, so settled in her own skin.  You couldn’t not see her, not hear her, not want a part of her to be inside of you. Vibrant and never ending. There were memories jam packed behind her eyes, things you knew that she was dying to forget. But she was stronger for them, better for them. She grew from every tragedy. If you were lucky she might whisper them to you alone in the safety of darkness, but in the light of day she would never show weakness. No, she was all over the room, opinions, and laughter, hand motions and impressions, spinning like the Tasmanian Devil of Human Emotion. Everywhere, and spreading like wildfire. There was no stopping her, no controlling the wildcat inside of her. She came in like a lion. She roared and everyone listened.