i slept in the arms of cities
with no names,
listened to taxis like lullabies
while the moon
pushed its hips against my window.

i howled at the moon from a rooftop
with a cigarette and no shirt
the neighbors called me mad
but i was just
finally hearing god.

When the sky dons its robes of indigo,
I slip into a tranquil reverie where
shadows lengthen and soften,
and mirrors hold whispers of ancient stories.
A gentle breeze dances through the forest like secrets.
It’s a lullaby for a weary soul.
A gentle reminder than even in stillness,
there is movement, a world in transition.
As I stand on the threshold of day and night,
I think about all the fleeting moments
from my past self and embrace the twilight.

Whispered words and stolen glances,
gloved hands clasp, fingers laced.
Hidden lines and hopeful chances -

In dim-lit parlors, a warm embrace.
Out of the shadows -
A flame.

Love, like petals of a blooming flower,
Roses of rubies, lilies of pearl.
A skin as though of jasmine
that August evening…was it August?

I created you in a hazy vision
when my mind was drunk with sleep -
Are you a dreamer too?

These days I’ve been looking to the past, to all the women before me. The revolutionaries whose words helped shape the way I see the world; the way I see nature; the way I see simple, ordinary pleasures of life become extraordinary.

These days I let my pen flow freely across the page. I look to all the women before me for guidance because I find myself afraid to speak my own truth. They teach me with words how to live presently, never looking back because there’s no room for mistakes to reside here.

These days we’re on a first name basis. With wide-eyed clarity, all the women before me allow a short glimpse of them as they once were: bright young things full of hope with a cigarette loosely balanced between faded red lips and hands that move deftly over a typewriter. The room is filled with cigarette smoke and incense. I can almost smell it now but the vision is gone with the wind.

These days I seek out: Zelda; Sylvia; Anne; Emily; Joan; Virginia. To all the women before me, I have found you. They’re no longer a black and white still photograph or a short film reel. In those moments, they stay forever young etched in time from decades ago.

These days I welcome you all in my waking dreams. To all the women before me, you are not lingering ghosts being passed by unseen. You are not remembered for how you left this earth but for how, after all this time, you still remain unchanging.

Blood is the only story I can tell.
For a fragile and damaged brain gives no cure,
and either chooses chaos or new birth.
My soul was the only currency I could sell.

Now I am empty and unleash the monster within.

So, deeply, I fell in love with slashes of red.
I gave no mind to life or death and thus
laid my wrath to carnage, sinning again and again.
And by my mirth, released the hungry wolves.

I was exulted at the sight of them.

After, I traveled to the brink of Hell’s chasm.
Staring into the pit black as obsidian, I jumped.
Torment and misery had been my only companions
and in the face of great heretics, I was welcomed home.

I was born from sin and so stained from the beginning.