Sweat pours from the places where my bones meet
My eyes shut against the glare of oil on asphalt
The wind carries whispers of rain, makes the leaves dance and fall
My skin radiates and tightens as I walk
Cars trundle past and around me, I hear them make their way
And I think about my mom, and about food, and about showering when I get home
This isn't a poem, is it
It's just me

The sea is milk
And I am soap
White wash it all
And paint new pictures

I called the shots until I realized
I was shooting all my friends.

Origin of language
It's my dream to understand
Why and how
And I think it was
And it is
The human need for individuality
Betterness
To be at the top of the hierarchy
Which has sparked the vast expanse
Of spoken and written language,
The cheap signal communication style
So characteristic of human beings
Has everything to do with the need
To control and create
But the joke, ultimately,
May be on us
For when you create less than what you destroy,
You cease to be the creator of your own destiny,
And become instead the destroyer of your own fate.
Listen to the whispers of dead language
Which creep through your DNA
And understand.

Much to do,
and
no way to do it.
nodding your head
you say,

I

like the way you
only sing
very
early in the morning.

you
only sing when I'm
up.

It is sudden understanding
Which brings me back to you
Which pushes me back into your arms
And makes me swoon at your eyes
And it is always sudden despair
Which turns me away
And leads me back down a smaller path
That pretends to have never known your name.

I am
25 years old
Looking into the eyes of a man
Who might already know me better
Than anyone I know.
And my heart knows the way
But my mind is clouded with questions
And as he kisses me
I wonder
Who I am now.
Who I am now.

I will escape my body one day
And death will take what's left
But until then
Let's sing each other's praises
Until we're out of breath
And dance in sunlight, and moon light too
Let's drink to more drinks
And write it all down in a book
When all the rubber is worn from the soles of our shoes
our hearts keep beating with syllables and pentameter unspiralling
Even when the blood in our veins stops flowing
Let our souls flow out via the poetry
Kept stuffed in half-filled spiral notebooks perspiring, just
Waiting for you,
And for the you after you,
To live again
In the language of an old life
Speaking dead alive stories
For others to keep inside their own
beating hearts.

I was eleven, the first time I saw you.
I thought you were sweaty, and that your hair was too long.
I had just skipped two straight months of school,
they had told you about me and I hated that.

I was twelve, the first time I met you.
I remember my classmates were uninspired
and equally uninspiring.
I wrote things for you, I wanted you to know that
I wasn't like them.
I not only thought things through, I couldn't stop.
I wrote to keep from going crazy.

You showed me your plays,
your poetry,
your short stories.
You showed me college english textbooks
full of various prose,
each one flavored slightly differently.

You showed me The Giver,
and Dead Poet's Society.
I wondered if you really fancied yourself
the captain,
leading your charges into vast fields of knowledge,
and what's more,
appreciation for the knowledge.

You were the teacher that made kids
want to teach.
You looked after me.
Made sure I was fed.
Signed me up for extra credit,
even when I said no.
You showed me what it was like
to have someone's support.
You showed me love.

When I went to high school
we stopped talking,
except for the occasional email.
But I had a boyfriend
And I smoked ***
And I didn't want
to let you down.

When I graduated, I sent you an email.
Explained everything.
I begged to see you,
to talk about all that happened.
You never replied.

You died the week before I received my diploma.
Since then,
I've been going off of soundbite bits of advice
you once gave me,
trying always to remind myself that I can do this,
because
you showed me.