I,
   the dried flowers on our porch.
You,
        the growing cactus.
I am beautiful,
                         but stagnant.
You grow,
                                     Sharp.

And sometimes,
the wind blows
                    and my petals dance.
And sometimes,
you say
              the most lovely things

But I Can't Touch You.

somedays, Love is like an empty driveway. sometimes Love is a grizzly; when it wakes, it growls at you. sometimes, Love is a full moon. Love dances with You and forgets its claws and gnashing teeth. sometimes, Love doesn't know that its bites aren't supposed to hurt. but sometimes You don't either, so you forgive. sometimes Love is a cat that scratches and comes back purring. You don't fault it for being that way. Love is not easy to understand, but at least You are always willing to try.

this is what my heart
                   looks like:

           it is            geometric
                                       and angular
           there are                      dark corners
                                                        a­nd sharp edges  
But sometimes in the
sunlight some of my
sides look so
bright

I mean
      that I am trying to tame
      the wildfire in my heart
      built on the Embers from a
      domesticated bonfire
      during a winter many springs ago.
      i thought i had stamped it
                                                         out
                                                      out out
I mean
      that I am not trying to run
      i'm just trying to move
      in a different direction
      the scent of a breeze caught my nose
      and as i am a red tailed fox
                                                       i follow
I mean
      that sometimes i feel like
      my dreams are much bigger than me
      but even if i am a ladybug
      i am still as big as the
sea.

.         i want my hands
to be the hands of Palm Trees.

            Rough
                          and
Weathered;
                                       Tall,
                                    but ugly.

Nostalgia is a man I have memories with,
                                    but no knowledge of.
He is a tree rooted in mystery
with leaves that shade
         the hungry mouth of a river
         malnourished--
pale skin stretched over tendon.
Release
palm upturned in offering
always offering
even with nothing to give.
Nostalgia
                 never learned hatred,
                                                       but bitterness
cold winter biting at smoking hands
bony fingers raw and red and reaching
                                                        ­             out out out
for empty air

particles
aligning
              galaxies
              colliding­
                             the universe
                             is trying to
                             figure itself
                             out
                                  but
here we are
               now and not
               to revel would
               be a mistake

Pipsissewa
                and I
      met today.
It started with a story
told by T:
      how she and him met;
and then I looked down
and there she was,
         in all her glory.

*Perennial evergreen,
              I am glad to know you.

The absurdity
is in the conclusion,
                                   but it's also
                                          the cliff
                  from which I jumped
From Chaos,
                      To Chaos.
                                             All that is left
                              is a futile attempt to understand
                                       the silly habit of living:
    *A constant battle between
Order          and          Disorder

Perhaps I am a cactus.

              Perhaps,
there are needles
                              protruding
from my skin
to prove how soft
i really am.

                            A saguaro,
                   only hollow      
      by the birds                  
           who make nests      
                          in my chest.

Perhaps,
               I will flower
once the rainy season is over.

I will drink deep of this muddy sorrow
and my skin will swell
warm
          and green
                            and well nourished
by the sky.

Perhaps,
                it will be
the most beautiful
                 blossom anyone has
       ever seen
and people will travel
                                                      mile­s
                      just to
                                      admire.

Perhaps,
        ­        they will wonder
how my flower
                came from such a
spiny
thing
And Perhaps
                        I will tell them.

there is an entire
                   universe behind
          your eyes
i wasn't aware of
until you said my name
it woke the
                    stardust in my bones
formed nebulae       in my brain.
i don't know      which magnet
you
       stir
             in
                 me
but i am pulled to you
by the iron in my veins

.                                       you used to shake so bad

I remember it.
I still shake sometimes.

                              *we all do

There are bluebirds flying all around
Inside my head
And I am reminded that tomorrow,
I may not hold your hand again
and I may never feel your teeth sink
Into my skin, again
                                      and wasn't that
                                   supposed to be
                              a good thing?
I'm left cleaning up the scraps,
the mess we leave behind
Like it's my responsibility
to carry your heartbreak, too.
                                         wasn't it
                                   supposed to be good
                              when I was with you?
I read somewhere
                       This is where you fire your musket,
              and this is where you fall and die
but I've fired my musket-heart
and I haven't fallen and I'm still dying
for you to look me in the eye
Like you still mean it;
Like there isn't some line in the sand
you have drawn arbitrarily
to measure what has been inside my heart
When you never cared to ask.
Love, those bluebirds are making it hard to see
through all their Pulsing wings,
But in their eclipse,
I'm finding a ring of light.

Dear Sledgehammer Heart,

You are tough as nails,
        and you are also soft as silk.

You are wildflowers
         blossoming in the spring,
         and again in the summer.

You bloom more for yourself,
                                                     than for anyone else.

You are both student and teacher
           with fistfuls of love,
    clenched for those that hurt.

You taught me
         the importance of a good porch:
The Foundation Must Be Solid.
                              A Home can be built anywhere,
as long as the Foundation is Solid.

You taught me to announce myself,
and to be proud of the songs that come out.
                                       (Even when the sounds are sharp,
                     they must be set free somehow, right?)
      
And you taught me
         how to handle a heart
as delicate as mine
     pretends not to be,
                      with soft hands and gentle love

Stones smoothed into little pebbles
at the bottom of a river.

     I can only hope I have learned
               to hold your heart
with the skill and grace of bird wings
And to lift you
                           higher
                                        as you do me.
It is the only way I can think to return
the lightness
                       you gift by existing.

Please remember,
                                My Sledgehammer Man,
             you must simply exist
and the universe is lighter
                 for it.

you looked in the mirror
and saw someone else's eyes
hiding behind your own.

you felt shattered
when you saw him last
but you were stronger

like you'd been tempered
with distance and distraction
false answers in the stars

and you were the tree all along
branches just hearts strings
connecting you to sky
and you still weathered well.

I am not made of metal.
It does not take
             immeasurable strength
                                           to put       cracks       in me
I bend
                  and I
break
                                 and I
do so quite easily.

I am not ashamed of this.

                                              I will no
                                               longer
                                                allow
                                               myself
                                                to be
                                          the iron bars
                              You think guard my heart.

I will flow like river,
And sway like branches of trees.
                   I will dance,
and you will see
               I am not this unflinching thing
you have created me to be.

It's as if my body were the ocean.
Eyes of constellation,
                                     I wonder
                     what it was like
       the first time you
were so in love
It hurt.
Did you bend an break
                at your bough?
a shipwreck more beautiful
                       because unmovable
            and your blue skies clouded
Some beautiful substance, you are.
           Sometimes it's a burden.
                  Others, it's poetry

I've been
     trying
     to find
            words to describe
the secrets
            of ancient bones
            hidden within this temple
in which i've made my home.
Perhaps if you took the time
to study
              the walls I call
                    my skin
               covered with
graffiti & hieroglyph,
You might find
                           some
                                    greater
                ­                                 truth
obscured by
my own lack
of knowledge
                         on where
                               and how
                         to begin

So maybe I'll start
                                 with the
                                 original
                             big           BANG
Detail
every moment
of recorded history
that lead up to the exact
                                  explosive moment
when our lips met for the first time
and i slipped
into a new    
                        universe
                          where­    

I only want to fill silence

           with your                             
                                                    name

maybe sometimes you try
            when maybe you shouldn't.
                       and maybe sometimes you care
                                when maybe you ******* shouldn't.

I eat books of poetry for dinner,
and you are on the couch next to me.
I know we are here, but what do we call this?
I think the word is home, but it
sometimes feels like a serrated knife.
sometimes, it feels like we’re holding hands
in our sleep. There is a book of words like home
in my hands: it is full of empty driveways and watering cans,
and dancing under the moon,
I eat the words, but starve on the feast.
I would have broken you like granite; placed you
like a kitchen counter. You were never meant to be the cutting board.
You are the knife. I do not play with these domestic things.
Come sit at the table next to me, darling.

I'm thinking about Flowers
        I forgot to feed
and rocks
      I wear
but don't always believe in.

                               I always wanted
                                             to be
                                                      grounded­;
              wanted roots to
                        sprout
           twist
                       and
                                  grow
                deep.
­
But I am not dirt, nor root, nor flower.
I am the empty watering can.

I've seen
               Jesus
               at the bottom of
                          whiskey bottles.
We've talked
                  about the universe,
                                    and death,
And he's given me the whole speech,

                        And I decided I'd better just
Sleep it off.

I can only remember your eyes
            looked like moons
bathing me in
                        bluish clarity
peeking below trees;
They brushed your face
like eyelashes.

I wish Mother
                        Nature
had given me a more
                                     Celestial
body, that I could show my love
in grander gestures.

Disappearing woman,
I imagine the breeze is your lips
                 unfreezing glass-water
Bringing canvassed flower -field
                 alive with just a touch.

Disappearing woman,
I looked for you on mountaintops
and beneath
            rust colored leaves
                                       that
                                        fall.

I'm thinking about hands again.
                                               I'm thinking about
            how yours are big
            and mine are small
and how yours fit
                                nicely
                     around my throat
mine claw at your back
and i gasp
                                                        …fu­ck me

And I'm thinking about your steadiness
                           and my shakes
        and about how we both create
                               universes
with just our hands
                 and our lips
                         and our teeth.

I'm thinking about how
          my hands would like to find yours
in the dark
              and rest in it's spaces
                             under your ocean
              of blankets,
    like an empty glass waiting
to be filled.

she used her halo
                as wings;
strung it up on
                Chemical
                                Looph­oles
that make her feel close to
                         God
and on the subject of
                          being God,
We discover.

You are lightning bolt.
               (electric shock to my skin)

You taste like
                   hot
          floridian
                         summer
Sound like
                  thunder storm
                                falling
                   ­                        on dry asphalt

And I want to tell you
you felt like homecoming
                       (even though you were always leaving,
                                                    and i was never staying)

I saw the flowers in your mouth
          and I wanted to taste them
                     wanted to take them for my own
  but I wasn't ready
                       to be
                  selfish
            with you
                       yet.

Perhaps we'll meet
again in a city
                                       much larger
                                          than ours
And I'll fall in love with your flowers
                                              again
*(and­ perhaps this time,
                                I'll let them grow)

I saw the Earth once, and fell in love.
I wanted to be named dirt.
You laughed, called me mud,
But I love all things that hold up the sky
and You forgot that one is part of the other
and that I am part of everything.
I remain,
                both dirt and sky
You
       disappear with no name.

I think
           there are flowers growing
                                    out of your
                       mouth.
You taste like weeds:
         Wet and
   muddy.
                                      Our roots
                                         or legs
                  tangled
in the dark              once
and I thought I remembered safety
in the vines
           But now they have
                                            all
                                                 been
                            stripped
away.

Now,
          I am like this empty house.
I am all cuts
         all bruises
         all dirt
And it hurt          when you left me
                     but I
            am still standing
The
      foundation
                       is
                          cracked
              but still strong

My world is spinning,
                               again,
    the way it used to
on an axis
           so tightly wound
    during the
                 day I can't see straight
    but at night
I see some clarity
                                and maybe I've got it
reversed
           misguided as my heart has been;
  my intentions
            have tried to be
                                      pure
                   ­ but maybe
       tonight
            I wanted to be
in sin

you left a bruise on my lips
the first time we met.
                              A crash-and-burn type of
                                         introduction.

you left a bruise on my soul
the first time you left
                               before I realized I was leaving
                                                     too

those bruises all
            have yellowed
            and healed.
Sometimes
                   I still feel
your chaos clawing at my bones

a calm just as much for yourself,
as for anyone else.
Remember in the sweet breeze,
you do so much for others
just by humming.
and Remember that you, too,
get enjoyment from it.

I remember
                    one night we got so drunk
         on our porch under blankets
     I systematically
covered
     in cigarette
                   ash.
              dusted off
and started again
                                                      I swear
that night, under twinkle lights
                               I always think cast such a warm
                    glow,
          and drip golden,

I swear,
               that night,
Our Passion
                      bubbled like the carbonation in our bellies
And I stopped myself
                                      from saying I Love You.

I remember
                     on Christmas,
we laid on the couch
                                     all day
and didn't see or speak
                               to anyone else.
Watched movie
                        after movie
                                  after movie
Until we both sunk    
into each other
so deep    
                                 half asleep with commitment
              to laziness
      Until I couldn't tell
where my body
                   ended and yours
           began
It was the best Christmas I've ever had.

And I remember
           how you looked
       the night you told me
                              it was over
My breath
                                            caught
and cracked
                             like
                                       ice
Stuck
           between esophagus
                                                 and lung
like our bathroom pipes.

You must have said
                                                  "ex-lover"
hal­f a dozen times or more.

I remember
                     thinking how inappropriate
it was that as I was listening to you
             And all I wanted was
to kiss the anger
             from your lips

I'm not sure why I ever stopped myself
             from loving you until
the very last second,
But I think you're right.
       I thought I couldn't deserve you
and instead of fighting,
                      I put my hands up,
threw down
           a white flag.
In the end, I didn't deserve you
Your quiet power,
                                  Your Moon-child Grace.
If nothing else,
                           this time,
I will learn
      from my mistakes.

Because no matter where I go
my Queen watches over me
                    reminding me of ego
                    as she hangs off her throne
                    for half the year
                    trying not to fall back
                    to Earth

Everything was so green
                and I wondered
what you would think of
          the tiny hands and feet
       of the falls,
          the lanky limbs
                 of trees
                     so much like your own
I peeked into a moment between lovers
               (real lovers)
and I wondered
                            if you and I were ever
                                                     like that
I wondered if we had the capacity not
                           to hurt
And then I wondered
                     if there really was such a thing
                                               as hurt,
or if it was just growing pains--
     the ache of making space
for another human being
     beneath my ribcage.
                                            (are you a human being?
                             and what defines being human?)
I suppose I would rather
       make space
          until I break
        than never
    make space
at all.

you make
                 my
   hands           shake
             like my
              aunt's
   hands           shake
like they haven't forgotten
                            the weight
of the last cigarette they held
even after her precious lungs
                       had forgotten
how to breathe.

god, did i want to be home
         in the home I thought I found
in your crystalline eyes
clouded only by wisdom

                alcohol ******* and ***

where i always sought
                                        comfort
          ­     in your chaos

The Knight arrival is good news.
He says "Carry
                 with you what you must,
but remember:
for what you cannot
                 Carry,
                 you will gain
                 that much more."

The moon has a cycle;
                                      she says "You
will always be what
You
       have always been,  but
that doesn't mean you can't be more"

It will come with time.

i feel
         a new
                    click
                            in my wrist
       the ache
                     from bruises
                                            long healed
bumping into things
trying to figure it out
                                     i always
                 figure it out
i will always
                  figure it out
the universe has sculpted my bones
stardust and ashes
half empty glasses

i know it may not be
             for a much greater purpose
i am simply
             the product
                     of everything
             that came
before me
and the weight of that
                                      is heavy
and the weight of that
                                      is
                   ­                       freeing

.        Child of the stars
                Chaos, incarnate,
      hold your heart still.
          Your
             Tiny
              Perfect
          Human
   Existence;
        My king of a mountain of Ash.
                                                            ­         You
are the song you couldn't write
      and it's frustrating
                                         because you
are still standing.
        Still Breathing.
                             Wild
                       Hurricane
                  Heart,
I didn't know that stars
                       Could break
         before I met you.

it's the little things
             that end up
     tying you down.

don't accumulate too many
           little nothings
          cause in the end
they're what will make you
                drown.

Dear New York,
          I think of you often.

Dear New York,
          In a parallel universe,
                  I am holding you tightly,
but in this one
       I am only grasping
                                        at empty air.

Dear New York,
          Do you read
the love letters I write you
          in my sleep?
                                     Do you sleep at all?

Dear New York,
          I hope you enjoyed your coffee today,
and that it was not bitter,
                                            if it tasted like me.

Dear New York,
          I hope it tasted like me.

And this.
This is what
it could
be like.


                                                                                                   And this.
                                                                                              This is what
                                                                                                    it almost
                                                                                                    was like.

He is a lit cigarette.

He
     keeps you in
water
          beer and
                   good conversation.
His kisses
                   are like bonfire
                   on summer nights.
                                All passion
drunken laughter, a night full of stars.

He is a lit cigarette.
Harmful
               to your lungs,
               to your heart.
He will be gone
                            be gone
       before the summer breeze
has finished
                     kissing your cheeks.

He is a lit cigarette.
And he will burn out
                      before you're ready
But ******
                                He
tastes
          so
   ­           good
And you crave him.

You feel heavy.

        Like there is something
                 Tangible
in your sadness
                           And you think
       you're so dark
but I'm not sure.

                  You dumb your profound.
                                                       ­           Your heart feels
                                                           ­           like thunder.

                         You are Rolling;
                                 Disaster

                                          but
                                                 not

         Destruction