She asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up

I told her many things

Like a fire truck
Something large enough to put out the fires we create
Glasses
Shaping things up and making them look better
Let me be an iceberg
Built from breaking down and re freezing

There are other things I would like to be as well
Like a father
A husband
Or a man
I want to fill in the occupations my father
never grew up to be

Sometimes I'm afraid of the dark...

but I shouldn't exorcise the past.
I won't burn it at the stake.

I should accept its every demon
and make friends with them.

That's all they want.
Friends.
Some love.

I should really respect them.
They've helped me pave the way
to this very moment.

Sometimes...
I'll whistle or sing,
when I can't see in the dark.

I used to throw blind punches.

Turn on the light and
I'd look like a real silly person
fighting with their shadow.

The melodies keep me flowing
through space and time.

I really shouldn't fight with the present.
I should unwrap it forever as an infinite gift.

We should waltz 'til we fall.

The future is an unlit cellar.
I want to run inside to get what I need and split.

But when it comes time...

I will dance
with the darkness
and sing softly
holy matrimony
into its ears.

I will whistle
divine praise
into its mouth.

Let's sing 'til we faint.

I'm just as afraid of the light
as I am of the dark.

Let's dance 'til we die.

I'm just as in love with them both.

I wonder if my skeletons in the closet miss me.
I used to keep them company all the time.
I hope they're still playing nice.

They wouldn't make for the most comfortable of cuddles,
but at least we had a lot in common.
We could talk all night until the sun rose,
and it wouldn't even matter as long as we had the door shut.
We'd talk until I was deliriously hallucinating faces on their skulls.
We'd talk until I'd melt into their rib cages.
My pupils were as wide as eye sockets,
and I could see myself in their skin.
They'd smile at me, warmly,
and make me feel at home.

I wasn't afraid of the dark,
I was afraid of the light.

Look.
Don't.

These are the two greatest choices
someone can make.

The *art is present.
The art is present.
The art is now!
Look.
Don't.

These are the two greatest choices.

The artist is present.

Love is further than the tip of my tongue,
closer than my fingertips, and
deeper than my fullest breath.

I'm not afraid of losing you,
because I never had you in the first place.

I'm afraid of losing what I feel with you.

In the presence of god and all of his creation I will tell you the stunning amazement that is the northern lights.
The way that god will drain the tub he relaxes in. Just so we can be rained upon by this phenomenon called aurora borealis. Graciously dancing across the sky we have known as blue. Knowing it is nothing more than a universe full of questions I am afraid to ask. So tell me.

I want to know how they felt 100 years ago. How did your culture interpret this magic sky shifting juncture that formed ballets above them. Tell me how they navigated the north star. A fixture in the sky meaning nothing but everything to the right person. Finding the broken piece between reality and imagination. Our compass has been thrown off by the deception lain across our flesh.

Let this culture lead by example. That we may one day step outside our lightbulb lives and exist in the moment that we use to call the world. Moments like sunsets and the things we refer to as constellations. May those anomalies cross your brain, find you broken in bed. Clawing out of your chest trying to show you what it is to feel. Embrace what your ancestors left. Dreams of a sustainable culture. Get off your ******* phone and cross the lagoon. Respect the chucks of history laid on your shoulder. It is not just a chip.

May those moments haunt you in your dreams. And have the culture injected into your veins. Have this as a message. Fill your dreams with nightmares of a village under water. Drowning in learned helplessness. Not understanding which direction is up when the clouds are out.

America has taught us that the past is irrelevant. That in historical events we have always made the best decision. That slavery was justified, if you ask the right person. Columbus was god upon men. Yesterday is gone for we will embroider the memories of what once was into any shape we desire. And America has given up and now PBR belongs to Russia.

This stand is for you, Inupaiq Eskimos. Let the Eskimo games begin. Show this culture that you have not forgotten the importance of your ankles. The function of chasing Caribou. May the preservative dust upon the shelf as you are dusting the tundra for dinner. Shall we build a fortified wall around the unique skills no one will dig their fingernails into.

Live off the land under the toes of the greedy americans. Show them the flowers that have been stomping upon and how these flower heal the broken hearts held in their chest. The flat land that is looked after as boring with a hint of forgotten. Show them the importance of leveled landscape. Where to find the hidden dips in the skin of our earth. How your bones will forgive you for this moment of rest.

I will never be an Eskimo. I have only live here for a few months of my life. But ****** son, stand up with your spine into your skull. Connecting you with right now and days we have left behind. Please take a moment. Read a book. Learn a trade. Apply the sinews attached to the bones in your chest, and take a moment to breathe in your heritage. Take your first breathe and see life, as it is meant to be.

I wrote your name out with the leaves
but the wind blew it around
I carved your name in the bark of a tree
but the lightning struck it down
I drew your name in the sand
but the waves washed it away
So I carved your name into my skin
and forever will it stay.
Everywhere else forgot your name
the bark, the sand, the leaves
I needed you out of my head
but you're still stuck under my sleeve.
k.l.s.

We're all parched.

In a circle we sip
from the watering hole,
all sides, another animal
most of them pay me no mind

but the lion stares at me
from across the rain,

his whiskers brush
the surface —
I respect you.

He laps up his drink,
and with a flick of his tail,
bids farewell to good company.

I look down into the ripples,
formed from the mouths of
many thirsty beasts,
and I look up into my weary eyes.

I am grateful to be alive.

Kissed by rippling lips,
myself I drink deeply

Because this
may be the last time
I return to quench my thirst.

I wipe the drips from my lips,
and look down where they rippled

Lion smiles up.