Don't call it falling.
Falling implies you can get up.
My infatuation lies along the fault lines
tucked beneath the first
bumps of turbulence.

Don't say swooning,
not any ocean's salt could
revive me.

It's a tachycardia- a frenetic, feverish ardor
that keeps us
p a c i n g....
.... p a c i n g
p a c i n g....

                          

                    A mania.



Yes, that's it- I'm manic in love with you.
Ill with adoration for you.
Anxious over you.
Possessed by you.
Elated, then devastated by you.

Prescribe me nothing.
Let this ravage me until bones are soil
and one day this up-for-grabs heart is
donated to someone who
thinks their life has been saved but
can't quite put their finger on
that immortal ache written within each valve.

But do not call it falling.
Falling implies you can get up.

Taking stock
I tuck this year inside
the first little furrow-line
across my brow.

Hm. Skin's changing.
I'm changing.

There was more anguish in 24
than the Doc ordered.
Somehow, the endless easy wealth
endless easy employment
and eager entertainment
evaded me.

But there are also little dents on either side of my mouth now.
A ripple between lip and dimple.
There was joy on this face-
enough to carve its name forever.

24 and time has begun to speed up,
people talk a bit quicker
fleeter of foot
and calendar has begun
to foxtrot-

And I sit on the side of the Hall
watching the days dance on and on
how selfish they seem
How quickly Spring woos Summer
How fickle is Summer, as she whirls to Autumn
How chilly, Autumn as he falls for Winter,
How feverish, they dance.

24, a left-footed wallflower.
24 with wide eyes that try to capture
the entire world and hold it STILL.

This ball lasts forever and never.
There's no break.
24, I guess it's time to give Life my dance card
surrender and cut in,
24, ready, steady-

*let the dancing begin.

Satan wears no horns,
nor does he boast a tail or pitchfork.
He wears soft lips
and freckles in his eye.
You share coffee with him
and your secrets, too.
The devil is the easiest creature
to fall in love with.
I once fell victim
to his sweet forked tongue.
He made a home in my heart;
painted the walls
and planted a garden.
He broke all the plates,
all the flowers died,
and he blamed the destruction on me.
(p.)

He sat strapped into his chair like a shrunken scarecrow.
A motorized miniature from the Wizard of Oz, roaming the yellow brick road in his chrome chariot.
His clothes hung from his stick thin limbs like fresh wash on a clothesline.
As new as the day his Mom brought them home from the store.
Adournments for a body on display, not designed to be used.

Around and round circles ring, whole, symmetric complete.
But the coil of life, puzzle pieces in a whirl, must be free, infinite, unfettered.
The text misprinted, the logic destroyed, the flesh misshapen, the extremties unusable.

Tied to his wheelchair like the scarecrow to his rack, guarding a field of linoleum on the hospital ward.
His eyes blind to color and light, I saw only clouds as I peered into his mind with my inquisitive scope.
The boy's hair had the texture of straw on his nubbin head and he smelled of dry leaves before the winter's chill.
His useless limbs twisted and fine, delicate as dried twigs, they draped his John Deere in the vegetable garden of his imprisoned life, bound with the barbed wire of his treacherous genes.

He could move his head, and played a game of cat and mouse to us tinmen, who lumbered by his throne with our toolboxes full of bright scopes and latex gloves, frozen saucers and wasp sharp stings.
His head would bow, limp upon his neck like an overripe sunflower at the end of its stalk.
As our footsteps grew louder his Jack-in-the-box head would fly up, a clown's grin upon his silly face.
Was this the boy or his disease we would wonder despite the reruns of his show.
What could he know? This crumpled moonbeam parading as a child in rumpled clothes.

But one day upon a whim, I took him for a ride into the big blue sky and over the rainbow.
I grabbed the handles of his chair and slowly, slowly began to spin.
His head shot up like a shooting star, his twiggy limbs stiffened even more.
Faster and faster, I whirled him and twirled him.
A twister on the hospital floor, sending doctors, nurses and patients diving for cover as we spun, building like cotton candy strands.
His mouth opened wide, a huge smile spread across his face like sunshine pouring over a mountain's edge.
Beams of light speared through the clouds that filled his eyes.
A rusty hinged croak jumped from his throat as he hee-hawed a laugh as I flung him to the moon, ruby red slippers upon his feet.

though we all are decaying,
with minds collectively fading,
comfort is in confidence
to spin fast enough
to maintain balance.

though we try to escape
this unkempt world
with its busy streets,
yelling men on street corners,
random outbursts from the impoverished,
advertisements peddling
face creams and running shoes
and lotteries and fried foods,
the noise of it all,
what silence do we hope to escape to?

a beach with sunset?
i can hear the wind
against the trees, the splashing
of these waves before me,
the birds, they're calling their
night songs, i hear laughing in
the distance,

what of empty church?
i hear the echoing of my footsteps,
the creaking of aged wooden benches,
and if i concentrate,
i hear the gentle flicker
of that row of candles, the
***** rings of past hymns,

what of padded isolation cells?
panic rooms, artificial solitude?
cling to them like supermen
only for emergent use,
close your eyes,
let the black envelop you,
meditate, if you know how,
relax, beyond earthly possessions...

when that mind begins to wander,
as it does, it's mandatory,
hear that voice inside your head,
telling you to stay focused?

telling yourself to stay focused
only starts the spin of things:

and then you hear the beat
of drums, african tribal rhythms,
or phil collins at the start of
"in the air tonight"
or the strings, is that pachabel?
i hear the start of "the sound of silence"
as if my mind is mocking me,
i hear the voice of my mother,
there's my father,
they're beside me and it's christmas,
i hear nat king cole,
i hear the sound
of knife through turkey,
i hear laughter,
it's yours,
i hear the sound of my
fingers as they run along your skin
and get tangled in your hair,
i hear a heartbeat,
direct through chest, then through
bell of stethoscope, i hear
the rocko's modern life theme song,
i hear thunder, i hear rain,
i hear the splashing of my shoes,
i hear the gravel, i hear cars,
i hear the city, the random beeping
indicating when to cross,
the sound of garbage being thrown out,
of doors opening, slamming,
metal against metal,
i hear applause,
after successful landing,
i hear recycled air above me,
i hear it all,

everything is right here,
there's no such thing as silence,
and that shouldn't be a problem,
in fact, i think it's beautiful.