in 12 ancient tomes is kept
your yore,
with pages blank and
pages scrawled with tears
(salt-edged persipiration from one
thousand toils),
ink bled through in
a chemical reaction of
struggle with parchment
to create lines fine enough
to be seen as beautiful.

There are no lines but those
of the author and she
writes with a sagging fer-
ocity.

Her toil is mirrored in the
Eyes of others and the
Smiting of thousands.
Sun sets on the spokes of
Wheels meant to carry her to
The library of tomes,
But they cease their revolutions.

I've felt a lingering, encompassing contentedness
and I only hope she will stay.
I woo her like I would
a friend, I brew her coffees and teas and
we speak of the world in terms of
relativity and we laugh.
There is the most catalystically crucial point:
we laugh and laugh at all that
once seemed something
to be sorry for, or ashamed of, or
beneath our bustling cognizance.
Our jocundity is riddled with shining
jewels of barbaric opulence as I frantically
bare my canines in a persuasive exclamation.
I hope she'll stay,
but to receive and not give would never convince her.

I stumble upon them
In the silkily inked night-
Stars straining through like
Candle light in caverns-
And oftentimes nurse my
Stubbed toe in whimpers.

For some revelations
It is like the dandelion in reverse,
And all the pieces I catch,
Blown to me by the cold and unrelenting wind
As I strain my short arms, - higher, higher,
Softly, gently -
Nestle into a place that has been and was and always will be for them,
As it was and has been and always will be since this
Infinite and cumbersomely graceful universe was constructed in the cosmos.
The truth flowers and blossoms into being for me.
I caress it to my chest and stare at its multifaceted simplicity,
Shielding it from the wind that bore it with trembling hands.

Other times, I feel a blow to my temple
And my sternum turns to black, glass shards that implode,
Ripping and flaying as they exit.
My ribs slip to tar, laboriously oozing down the inner constructs
Of my collapsing frame,
Until it seeps from my toenails, puddling around me.
I rest a clammy forehead in its depths,
Soothing compared to the devastation within.

My heart, marred by these,
Flutters in apprehension,
And the closeness of contact causes
An indelible, impalpable, incredible
Rhythm
Falling in with the other.

The best moments of truth
Are when warmth
Crawls like sapling ivy from
The tips of my fingers to my earlobes and calves,
Navel and frigid nose,
Thawing me from the inside out and the outside in and all at once.
Chills cascade down my spine,
Fleeing to a safer place where they always will reside within me,
But that does not matter now.
I am walking on this knowledge,
I am prancing with my heart,
I am surrounded by a melody,
I am, I am, I am.
I was wrought with a tight throat and
Choked whispers
And a courage to hope,
And the moment when I began to know and suddenly knew all at once,
Because sometimes knowledge is inherent in our very being
If we are so bold as to taste it.

Tendrils of hair caress your cheeks
And you sigh, in a manner not quite forlorn,
But wearied.
Yesterday you picked up the red icing from
Your birthday cake and smeared it on your lips.
Your eyes contain a light that seems to dance
In their pools of relentless curiosity,
And you blink, for a moment,
A reprise from your absorption of
The Way Things Are.

Last week you were covered in dirt and
Blue on your eyelids that stretched to
Your browbones and made your
Stare look menacing.
I watched as you came home and
Scrubbed it off, allowing yourself
The small kindness of an easy cry
As you muttered and cursed, scaring me.

Today you are buying fake nails
And your makeup covers the
Oily tear-tracks on your cheeks.
And, for a moment, I am proud
Because your eyes light up ferociously
When someone calls your name.
So I say it over and over, reminding you you’re real.

Sometimes** I want to cut my eyelashes
Off when I think of all the
Stupid things I have done.
I’d end them at the root (
The follicle
)
Of their tormenting process
And leave only the small stalk of
Good that my intentions stemmed from
In the very beginning
( Before they feathered out into
Devastatingly long things, meandering
Wisps )))
That interlock with others and
Make the artist shiver when
He tries to draw them (One
By
One)
Sometimes I want to
cut (
Down to the root of things )
To make sure that everything
Started nobly
And that all of the suffering is for a cause.
Because my dark eyelashes have blond
Tips that are obscured in the sunlight
( And cloaked by the night ))
And I’m not sure if they actually ever end
Because they rub against one another (((like
Everything always leaves abrasions on the
Edges of everything else)))
And I never even notice the ripples in the
Air molecules when I blink,
Involuntarily and inevitably-
A dark flash withers-
Unnoticed-

I pace myself with thoughts of trivialities
And brush depth aside like it is nothing
When I am called upon.
But I never call upon myself, for that would be too much effort.
I try hard to forget that I am rusty, too,
But you need so much more oil than I.
So take it all, and take it gladly
Because I’d love to see you glimmer
In the afternoon sun.

Your hinges no longer squeak in greeting,
But unfold in fluid motions to
Encompass my ragged entirety.
And I am rusting now,

I am rusting,
Russet and flaking.
My paint chips and I appear dull,
Weathered by water and watered by weather.
I only diminish.

Glass and translucency
Mock me continually
As I struggle to find the caverns
In their beautiful facet, undeterred,
But realize that cellophane
With its loud crinkling, stains
The sight instead.

If only I could show others
The way you paint
With my reds and chestnuts
And the sunsets that I choose to mimic.
The continual exposure wears me,
But I am galvanized by your whisper,
“You are iron.”

Last night the moon
Wept her warm tears
For me, and they burned
Dime-sized holes in my
Coverlets. This did not
Concern me, as I knew
That the laborious breaths
Creaking through my
Ivory-wrought sternum
Will soon overturn
In substance.

Strip mines line my
Stomach, and the little
Traffic director inside
Me has declared that
No substance should fill
The hole that should
Hold, wishing to gnaw

The profound depths
That paralyze have
Tunneled to my core again
I was never ready to go
Spelunking, but then
Again, no one is ever ready
For the darker side of the light.

Mud puddles
Seeping
Is that mud?
Nah, prob’ly jus’ …
Just what?
He thought for a while,
Adjusting the stance
Of his cigar between his thin lips,
Barely covering the hole in his face.
In the dank silence,
I stared, and began to wonder…
How could he stand it?
The noisome smoke,
Right under his nose-
The rough texture
On lips that could not quite afford anymore sand-papering…
He took a drag, finally looked back down, and answered.
It’s mud.
We both knew it wasn’t mud,
But the foulness that seems to follow
The human wherever he
Would wander….
As I contemplated, he spat,
And added his own contribution.

Wind whips, whistling in the seat belt,
Crooning along to the emotional ululations
As I succumb to the emphatically teenager-like emotions,
Grand in their extremity,
Both realizing and fully embracing the cliché-ness
And dramatization of every quip, gesture, glance.
My mood soars irrationally with the voraciousness of my tires,
Devouring every granule of cement at velocities upwards
Of 30 miles per hour.
Jason Mraz and I make an excellent duet,
As I’m quite certain the disgruntled woman a lane over
At the stoplight thinks as well.
He sings of skies “getting rough”
And I allow my eyes to wander to our own ominous clouds,
Creeping from the east like panthers prowling in search of prey;
I appreciate their slate undertones and umber rumples,
The gold shining from behind and within, tinting their edges,
But I turn my attentions slowly, with a bittersweet notion,
To their fluffy brethren, friends of Magritte,
Iridescent and captivating as they weave among the rays.

The moor was dense
But the film was loose
and my blistered heel
broke the surface
and paralleled your cry,
ringing.
reverberation was never so kind in
this fog,
and it swallowed you.
Mist licked my open eyes.

I am not the ladder with the creaking rungs upon which your dusty feet may find stability,

nor am I the svelte key to dissipate any and all resistance to your god-given right to happiness,

nor can I entice you successfully from all the obstacles you have constructed
precisely for someone to lead you through.

And in all of this you are mistaking my momentary passing

for a longing glance in your direction.

Like the bile in my throat, all the Valentine's hearts and roses on anniversaries that
have been force-fed to you from an early age ring out

as you call y name, your voice cloaked in what you thought was love.

and I hear only the clang of my heels upon the pavement.

Light Darkness,
Soft Shadows,
Brilliant Undertones-
Flush with Flesh.

Dramatic
Elegant
Raw