A shade of yellow Or a speck of orange, A gleam of purple Or a dot of red, Slowly waking up to myself- I am moving through me. A birth that feels like ending, A death that feels like beginning, I am ending, I am starting, I am living, Finally moving.
i once wrote about men in California weathered men, crust of the earth, salt-soaked docks off the shore with leather sewn into their backs and hip bones made of steel and exhaust pipes that smell of chicory, sweat and cayenne who dip women by their neck, never sleep never eat, only feast and when the wind blows they leave.
how often I wish for 91 Brunswick Ave compressed together in a claw foot, your flesh my home cakes baked in too shallow pans I forget what song was playing when you told me you loved me.
how often I wish for the freeway between Cocoa Beach and Orlando, a friendly chaperone asleep in the back hands knotted thinking: “this is ours”
how often I think of August bonfires the terror of an international move “you would be a day ahead of me for ten weeks” I felt stronger than the 100-year-old ruins we were standing in
how often I wish for The Standards, High Line and East Village, bacon cocktails and antiquated photobooths and windswept harbour panoramas my insubstantial voice begging “don’t turn the red light off, I need you to see where my bones shattered and pierced my skin”
After spending all winter In shoes and boots My feet were put to their Summer test With a five mile trek see yellow butterflies! see the wild columbines! In flip flops And the blisters And the pain In an illogically brilliant manner Make me deeply and happily satisfied