I want to be a creator, a maker,
to put my heart on paper,
drop words on ground, to bloom for goodness saker,
into swirls and loops, that say if I'm a give or a taker.
put my prints into earth, rebirth,
let soil separate stubbornness from worth.
stars folded into matter, like batter,
like I am and he is, more than what shatters,
and what I roll out, kneed out,
will breath out my souls doubts
that I am a creator, a maker
that swirls around equators,
who is and will be, more than I can wager.

with eyes still closed, my mind awakes
to the ocean upon my door,
it knocks with salty insolence,
my land locked soul to lure.

the thought of coral in chandeliers,
tempts my feet from bed to floor,
but twas the sound of kelp being plucked,
that enticed me to explore.

a tidal wave is just outside,
where mackerel dance and more,
schools of sea-life swim upstairs,
to feed off shipwrecked floors.

with eyes wide open, my mind asleep,
my skin drops on the shore,
my hands scale through my algae hair,
and i hear the turtles lore.

the manatees discuss it too,
a tale of souls at war,
who hear the knock and find reprieve,
in an oceans wandering floor.

i put my ego on the killing floor
thick blood drops, i watch the door
but no escape for who i am
blood drops thick, i am no more

oh, God my soul, ransom me
from beams above, divinity
like honey on my wounds it pours
and washes clean that killing floor

confetti snow, so pretty and untouched,
paint me pink.
pink so I can dive into a well of unreason.
i'll dance with jesters and kiss them goodnight.
never think of the tree where i've buried tomorrows.
all my tomorrows.

then snow turns to slush, pink drips, not my color.
paint me black.
not for death but for classic, a backdrop, a canvas.
paint me black to be strong, an anchor for flurries.
stuck in black.

neither black, neither pink,
paint me white.
white like that snow that turned my feet frozen.
white like the snow, like the pure, like the light.
white like the empty.
yes, paint me white.

we look for ground
our roots can grow in,
soil in which we'll feed.

but I need earth
that quakes and moves me,
earth that I can breathe.

I want a man
who overwhelms,
so loud my screams seem meek

a man so wild
he makes my heart
a damsel in relief

o, let me grow,
and love and live
in more than dirt and dust

let me grow in
earth that keeps
the wild inside of us

Oh, I'll sleep today, dream through tomorrow,
and wake when the quaking is done.
But if sleeping is numbness and dreaming withdrawal,
then what kind of victory'd be won?

Cut through my insides and quarter my borders;
wrapped up 'fore they've fired the gun.
Strength, I now see you, standing perfected,
then willfully you shatter undone.

I want to sit
and watch the heavens move.
Saturated darkness,
not empty but infused.

Vast like an ocean
light swims in ebon grooves.
Feeding off the matter,
every inch of black is fuel.

Particles like creatures
in currents more than smooth.
To be absorbed by darkness
is to feel sublimely used.

I want to sit
and watch the heavens move,
reminded that I'm made of dust
and swim dark currents too.

I believe in the pull of the moon.

I believe in the things unseen that hold us together.

I believe in subtlety; that we are influenced by the intangible much more than we’d suppose.

I believe in spirit speaking to spirit, changing us from the inside out.

I believe in light that flows into the very cracks of darkness, until daylight is all that is seen.

I believe in change, and reinvention and leaps of faith.

I believe who I am today, is not who I will be tomorrow.

I believe in the fire, the flood and the flesh-that love only deepens to the depth of your sacrifice.

i have this fantasy in my mind
to sing the blues

to sing the songs of lonesome people
to belt it out from the bottom of my bellows to the tippy tops

i see my dark silhouette in even darker places
bringing sorrowful songs a touch of sweetness and whole lotta soul
soul that'll shake the lonesome loose

i could hide my face and bare all emotion
for strange familiar faces

so i'm crazy, yes, and secretly want to be a lounge singer
a lady of the night if you please
but think it over, then tell me truly that
to breath the blues for those who feel them
doesn't entice you as well

this single word
INTUITION
the most valuable thing i own
the most elusive

faith in body & spirit & soul
to bring me to all matter
faith in the simple, the subtle, the small
to elucidate my happiness

I want a Jack of all trades,
a man who is infinitely interesting.
With his feet on the clouds, his mind on the horizon and his heart on me.

Entice with beauty,
but the work to catch his heart is never done.
Pursue yourself. Create yourself.  
Everyday and evermore pushing to invest in who you are.
Alluring, enticing, evolving,
he's drawn to the chase,
wanting to know you more and more.

The boxcars empty and the track dead ends
But they'll be selling tickets til the world ends
Gold dust and lies
Glittered dust and lies

You've got your visions but your feet our on the ground
You're gonna wander this whole big world around
Chasing the skies
Always chasing the skies

Saddle up, hit 'em up
Take to the skies
Ain't no make can catch you
but believe me boy they'll try

i hold my lungs still.
my space, still.
i hold still lest my entire self float and scatter.
like soft white feathers bursting from their fabric confines, scatter.

fragile, you search me.
face to face, seeking  to understand me.
a physical manifestation of my favorite form of love.
like breathing in all i exhale and the spaces between, love.

I am in love with gray sky mornings. They make me wish I sang mezzo-soprano. They make me wish I had a distinguished streak of white running through my hair. They make me wish I held all the wisdom I will ever possess, but with the sprite heart and energy of a 10 year old wearing worn out sneakers. Gray sky mornings seem to represent a middle world, an in-between plane of absolute sweetness and impending doom. But not the scary apocalyptic doom, rather the powerful, majestic and mysterious kind of doom. Gray sky mornings are the worlds way of saying hold your sunshine anecdotes of beauty and bliss, beauty is much too complicated to be confined to only the obvious blue bird scattered skies. Beauty is in the messy, the transitions, its in the muddling of good and not so good, its is the unknowns, the half-ways and the try and try and try agains. Beauty is in the grays.

from the sea she came
  fresh and pure and wild

to the sea she shall return
  spent, consumed, beguiled

begin she must, as well as end
  breathe, break, redeem

though never forget to savor the salt
  throughout the in-between