A hand over your eyes,
to surprise you.

A hand to your lips,
so that I can say those three words first.

A hand over your heart,
to warm it and to ease it.

A hand on your hips,
to feel you dance.

A hand on your soul,
to witness you full and true.

And not to forget...

My hand in yours,
to let you know,
that I will never leave your side.

That you are not alone,
when facing infinity.

And that I will love you,
for all eternity.

A hand offered in earnest,
to start a journey together,
in a world of endless possibility.

days like this, gray sky
over coastal grandeur,
I sit and look out across
the rubble of a city,
the rubble of our souls;
what a ******* mess
we have made.

the gulls loop and dive,
screaming, into the
winter lake, and all
the classical music
in the world couldn't compare
to the dull sorrow
of this moment;
such a beautiful contrast
of trash and gold.

we are all, every one,
searching for something
beautiful, something
to hold that won't turn
to stone.

You tell me that I am young
That life has merely licked me, not stung
That I do not understand, that I have not yet lived
Enough to grasp the substance

I have known disease
Slow tears, muted pleas
Pain that nothing could appease
I have known the smell of hospitals for summers
The beeping and slurping of machine in massive numbers

I have spoken to voiceless loved ones,
Loved ones with teethless mouths and twisted tongues
Distorted jaws and wheezing lungs.
We have spoken with little green charts
And broken hearts
From the inability to connect the mouth to the thoughts in the head
And I left without understanding,
What they had said
Because I eventually had to let it go
(I still don't know)

I have spent countless summer nights
In nature’s garb, floating silently in a river
So warm that my limbs, skimming the surface, didn't shiver
Under a clear sky, the stars like paradisiac lights
Without anyone ever finding out
About these wild and primal escapades

I've drank, I've smoked
I have burned my throat
With coarse lemon gin
Until I could no longer feel my skin.

I have been frightened
Yes I have felt fear, like a noose around my throat being tightened
Like a gruesome black crow, perched on my shoulder
I have often awoken affright at night,
Longing, praying, for the morning light
I have felt fear, wild, fierce and turbulent fear
More than anyone will everyone will ever know
By men, by life, by myself
Desolate under the sheets, like a forsaken toy
All by myself

I have seen Paris in the rain
Traveled the French countryside by train
I've woken up to New York window views
And seen New Orleans afternoons, filled with heat and blues.
I've swam the Mexican Baja waters, turquoise and clear
With snakes as sharp as spears

I have known humiliation
Causing my cheeks to turn carnation
A spoon, emptying my insides out
Like a gourd

I have loved
I have known the aching pain of a swelled heart
And the way it can tear you apart
I have gushed torrents upon my pillows and sleeves
Tears running down my chin like guilty thieves
From a lit-up house

I have known death, and grief
The meaning of "never"
Whimpering in the school bathroom
And cold, lonely nights

I have seen the works of Van Gogh, Mondrian, and Miro,
Modigliani, Cezanne, and Frida Kahlo
Of Monet, Gauguin, Matisse, Magritte, and Picasso
I have wandered through hallways of masterpieces
Holding tight to my grandmother's hand
And I have wept shamelessly for joy
Before Degas's La classe de danse

I have been diagnosed
I have undergone computer programs designed to shift my brain, to better it
To get me to be normal, to submit
I have had brain-altering medicine shoved down my throat,
Like stuffing a goose,
To make my brain run a little less loose
And I have submitted and gotten use to my brain being altered.

I have had kisses that were mere trifles
Frivolous, yet fierce and acute like shots from a rifle
Lips of mere flesh, not sweet godly nectar
And gazes that meant everything
That seemed to connect with an invisible yet indestructible string
Iris like distant galaxies and pupils twinkling like black jewels
Eyes that seemed enkindled by some ethereal fuel
Speaking of emotions far too secluded, cryptic and cluttered
To be worded and uttered

I know the way in which violence resides
Not in commotion, brusqueness, nor physical harm
But in silence
In the time that covers pain and secrets
In the slow impossibility of trust
In the way that some secrets become inconceivable to tell, time has so covered them in rust
In that dull, dismal ache
In all that is doomed to remain forever opaque.

I have read, for pleasure,
The works of Balzac, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, and Voltaire
Of Bobin, Gaude, and Baudelaire
Of Flaubert, Hemingway
and good old Bradbury, Ray
Émile Zola,  Primo Levi
Moliere, Rousseau, and Bukowski
I have read, and loved, and understood

I have known insomnia
The way a beach knows the tides
Sleepless nights of convulsive, feverish panic, of clutching my sides,
Of silent hysteria and salty terror.
I know what happens at night, when sweet slumber seems so far away
The worries and woes seem to multiply and swell in hopeless disarray
My lips grow pale, my eye grow sunken
As a time ticks by, tomorrow darkens




I have witnessed horror
In the form of a blue body bag
Being rolled out with a squeaking drag
By two yellow-vested men
With apologetic eyes
That seemed to say "Oh god
We're so sorry you had to see that
Please, please
Go home
And try to forget"

But you are right
I am still just a child
Naive, innocent, and pure
I have known nothing dark or obscure
I have not yet lived.

Hold your breath,
And maybe, just maybe,
Then you'll achieve weightlessness

But not without turning blue
And falling to your doom

Consequences are a *****
When all you want to do
Is sprout wings
And take flight
In that vast blue sky
And spiral down
As day, fades into black night

I say this because it rings true,
No stranger to me than to you,
Because you can try to fly,
But one thing remains the same,
You will always hit the ground,
A little less happy than when you spread,
Those broken wings.

those in the tribe of “that is enough for a  40 and a bag of chips” like to self diagnose, self medicate, and self love/hate

they spend 3 dollars and 75 cents at least three times a week on medicinal purposes only. most often, 3 dollars and 75 cents is not enough. so they diagnose that they can spend up to, but no more than, 6 dollars and something cents on healing yesterday’s wounds and on stitching up tomorrow’s possible cuts

those in the tribe of “i wont live to be that old” enjoy loud music, avoiding sleep, and looking angry

they wake up dizzy because last night’s dose was a little strong, it will feebly run it’s course through the veins it learned to call home for a few more hours. they hang on because in no time, tonight’s dose will warm their blood again

those in the tribe of “i don’t need your pity” like to question authority, read manifestos, and tattoo nighttime cityscapes.

they, sometimes, live so fast that they forget to remember. on early morning occasions, they find puzzle pieces they forgot to throw in the closet and they remember who they were, are, and want to be. it is during these “it is 4 o’clock in the morning, why are you calling me” moments that they remember who to love and what to hate. for some, this is progress. for others, this is another 3 dollars and 75 cents.

the tribes meet as often as possible. sharing a couple dollars, 75 cents, and some loose lint, they gather the right doses needed to obliterate the demons. although only temporary, the fix holds long enough to help heal, release, and erase.

Let me tell you a little story,
About a girl called me,
Who had a broken heart,
That nobody could see,
But she felt it,
So she smiled through it,
Because she didn't want other people to feel it to,
Sometimes a frown is just as contagious as a smile,
Or that was what she thought,
So everyday she fell apart a little more,
All alone,
With people all around,
And nobody saw the pain that shown through her eyes,
Even though it came across so clear,
At the start of every smile,
Her eyes began to water,
And no one had a clue,
How lost she truly was,
Or how bad she really felt,
How every night she laid awake,
Thinking to herself about the past that haunted her,
And no one ever woke her up.

When the birds devour me
I hope they start with the soft tissue
my eyes and ears and mouth destroyed
my senses lost to the sky

When the birds devour me
I hope they find their fill in my stomach
where the weight of the world was carried far too long
wearing my viscera like Versace

When the birds devour me
I hope they pick my digits - one through ten and ten again
so I may touch every part of the world when they carry me away
so that my feet may fall on grounds I’d only dreamed to grace

When the birds devour me
I hope they tear open my chest and make their way behind these ribs
not realizing the irony of the situation as they sing
and I am filled with the music with each rise and fall

When the birds devour me
I hope they take my bones between them in their thanksgiving, pulling
wishing for legs to run and hands to hold, for lips to kiss
if they only knew, if they only knew

Clear off the bed
and come lie next to me
or lie with me
or crawl under these sheets
and die with me
or without
I'm used to it
but I could get used to this

Clear out your mind
and sink down low with me
or get high with me
or hold my hand
and lose some time with me
or without
I'm used to it
but I could get used to this

Clean up your act
and fall apart with me
or fall, apart from me
or fall, a part of me
and take some time to cry with me
or without
I'm used to it
but I could get used to this

Clean out your car
and run away with me
or run to me
or put it in reverse
and go back to the start with me
or without
I'm used to it
but I could get used to this

Cleanse your spirit
and embrace this pain with me
or brace for pain with me
or take a moment to put me back together
and just be with me, with me
or without
I'm used to it
but I could still get used to this