Your words are on the wind
you set them loose
but I cannot hear what they are saying.
When we last met, in the womb
I understood, everything.
Standing at the bottom of the stairs
I caught you falling, silent.
This time of time, history.
Run through centuries in pages of books
the author will never hear you crying.
The winners have it all sewn up
and there is not much room for discussion.

coldness on the skin;
touched from the furthest
of outer space

torn from all, helpless
the worst
Dark place a heart and mind
could experience
every rope comes away
every door is closed
Yes, 'The Dark Night Of The Soul'
Separate from any ideas of the existence of God.
This I have experienced. Love.

jump start your mind
with thoughts of lovely
beautiful, kind, loving
thankful, the eternal,
you have nothing to lose
not even your mind

i was trying to read a book
when you came along and insisted
that I read you instead
you were forceful in your persuasions
insinuating yourself between me
and the page, like a skin clad bookmark
*** in my face and the buzz of your voice
creeping through my head
as you ruffled thoughts and paper alike
to the point of distraction
how could i ignore you?
such a perfect edition and so responsive
beneath my fingers. you are better
than a story in braille
through you i can read of summer fields
the smelled taste of daisies and buttercups
knee-high grass and the heat of the sun
on day-warmed skin; the drowsiness
of a warm room and a comfortable lap
there is nothing better than
curling up on a good book.

standing within the swirl
of stars and worlds
and water and wind
made from the very same, sand
Bedouin Tribes have licked;
riding Camels eating sheep s eye s
and burning their dung for fire
sheltered by canvas sitting on rugs
and sweeping unwanted sand
out their tents and world.

The Eagle the Vulture the Fox The Beetle
all these have full rights
over my corpse, I leave them

I come home and look at my room
like I would the stranger that I ******
and didn't leave a phone number to.

I see the blank walls and smell
the sent of stale paint and think
of a life more privileged.

I can't help it.
I live in a box.

I see the world of money
and fame,
I live it.

I stay up and bite my nails
to dust
like it's achievable.

It's ******* not,
and I don't want it.

But I do.

song of communicating
a level;
deep, into the ordinary