my feet are weary
but I walk tall
this path is worn
but I will outlast it
there is a city ahead
I imagine,
people who are strangers
now but perhaps not forever
the only always is my
desire to never be alone
I can only carry myself for so long
but I’ll make it, I say
I will collapse into the
arms of one who was once
a face in a shop or
a figure behind a book
who knows how many millions
will walk by
until I find the courage to fail
or maybe someone else reads
an Annie Dillard book
how much do I have in common
with anyone other than myself
probably nothing
I should let myself be lost
for someone else to find
I want to be a stranger again
tell me how to unlearn and
disremember

I miss having someone with whom I can share my deepest feelings, my hurts, my desires. I need to relieve this aching chest, this chest that tightens up without my noticing, until I begin to gasp. I need to cry; I need someone who knows my inside, and not my out. Its tough not being known—it is a situation one feels no need to prepare for, until it occurs. I desperately want to invite someone in—though only someone that knocks first, someone that wants to be here. And I myself want to be welcomed into another, to understand and feel for someone else, as they feel for me. Here in this place, how do I make my knock heard? My knock is faint, and unfamiliar. I shall keep knocking nonetheless. And pray a door will be opened.

the unused morning
sits pure and pretty on my window sill
calls my name, lures me
out to wet dew and warm sunlight

it asks me to walk within it
to traverse its every nook
to know the secrets it holds
in wide plains, open for those who look

look, it says
see what I have, for you
all of this is yours, if you want it

it says this as it tucks me into the morning
sends me to wakefulness with the sweetest tune

I am here, it says,
and you are here

dance with me, with wings on your feet
for I am awake, and have not felt the wind since forever

as the last drop of you thins in my veins,
I find I’ve forgotten how to hold a pencil
don’t remember the syntax of a sentence
this page would be better used for kindling
can’t write a poem with a pen that’s been emptied of its passion

no more nights of tangled limbs and cool-air conversation
no more days of light laughter, shy smiles, and a flower
growing in my gut -  you made a garden out of me

dipped your paintbrush in my pigments
the portrait you painted I hung in front of my mirror
for you made me the man I’d always wanted to be

that portrait still hangs in its place
I’m too afraid to see what now lies behind

no longer star-light bright
my eyes reflect ghost ship lanterns
fading in a sea of memory

I sink, wishing time would turn back
or at least hurry forward -
just stop standing so still.

I sit, waiting until I’m struck again
but knowing hope is no course of action.

He has the moon in his eyes.
This boy who stands still
as the others rush by.
His stop is brief -
he just wants to have a look around
But by the time he turns back,
the others have turned the corner.
A corner.
Some corner.
What corner?
He turns down every street,
every side alley
but finds only the cracked lanes
of empty sidewalks.
Lost, he continues to wander
searching for someone
who knows his way
or at the very least
is just as lost.

I’m ready for revolution
there won't be no midnight Revere
but let me tell you, it’s coming
cause I’ve had just about too many nights
dreaming dreams that ain’t mine
I go to bed in hollow bird-bone shackles
dreaming the world is telling me to fly
but only South, cause that’s where I’ll be successful
...I know success is really flying North and coming out alive
so when I wake
I get a book for a pillow and a pencil paper night stand
cause I’ve just been thinking its my time to take a stand
so here I stand
fluttering limbs and a nervous system that’s **** nervous
but I’m here
for it’s time that I tell my story
it’s time that I know who I am
I am done sleepwalking in the dreams of others -
unconscious of my own conscience  
this is my manifesto

to reclaim my crumpled dreams from a forgotten pocket,
to spread them out before me and point where I’m going to go

this is my manifesto
to forget about the past, and the future
to dance to good music
to tell a girl when she’s beautiful
and to have the courage to cry

this is my manifesto
to speak loud
run fast
to love hard
and to let go

for that is all I must do
let go of the placating promises that keep my dreams anchored in tomorrow
push off from the shore
and let the very current that courses through my veins
carry me out to sea
for there is an ocean.. waiting for me

an entire world in which I get to sail in whatever direction I please
so please, come with me
push off from the shore with your own manifesto at the helm
and we won’t sail together,
but when we pass, I’ll wave.
and you’ll wave too.
for we both know that the ocean is ours,
and we’re just dreaming after all

in a town in which I've never been
you light a cigarette and try to smoke me out of your mind
while I sit here, my ashtray filled with pencil stubs
from trying to write my arms around you

I haven't slept since you left
I've spent my nights searching for the sun
for if I found it, I'd climb right on top
so I could be with you in the morning

but my mornings remain rivers after a storm
memories flowing by like debris
I can't reach them without falling in
so I stand and watch them go

its the watching I can't stand
watching your hand slip from mine
watching the wrong time
convince us that we can't be together

I feel helpless, hopeless
these days hold me prisoner
the hurt trying to torture remorse from my lips
but I will never regret the days I spent with you

when I was with you
you looked at me like there was no past or future, only now
you listened to me like I was Buddha preaching the Eightfold Path
you spoke to me like I was memorizing your every word, cause I was

you hugged me
you held me
you kissed me
like I’m a boy you had a crush on became I’m a boy who loves you

but here I’m a boy who misses you

as the wind blew us together,
the rain shall sweep us away
and come fall we’ll be leaves of different colors

i just want to tell you
that for how forcefully my gut protests at the thought of letting you go
I cannot hear its cries when I think of the time I spent with you

you took my heart in your hands, you broke it in and stretched it out,
and then you gave it back
here, you said,
it is ready

the funny thing about time
is the way it grinds your bones to dust
while they’re still sitting in your flesh

we can all feel it,
we pretend we don’t, but we do

you feel it when you wake up in the morning
having dreamt of your childhood
and the sound of your sister’s laughter is still ringing in your ears

you feel it when you look up from a book
and its not your brother sitting in the chair next to you
but a strange fellow with a deep voice
and a nose that looks remarkably familiar

and strongest of all, you feel it when at the dinner table
your mother asks you what you’ve been up to for the past 18 years

see, the funny thing about time
is the way it grinds your bones to dust
while they’re still sitting in your flesh

just the other night, I pressed my palms together
and I called on a friend I hadn’t seen in awhile,
to ask where he’d been

he told me he’d been spending time with my father
because the man really needed some company
without his oldest son to talk to

oh and while I have you, he said,
your mother called
she told me to tell you
that your bed is made, if you ever want to come home

my eyes hurl meteor metaphors
towards the gravity of your gaze

upon impact, passion ignites poems
in the starlight of your stare

connected in constellation,
we read

O, to live in the absence of time
when days are not days, but moments
always begun, never at end
unplanned, uncharted
and remembered

you are birdsong
you are moonlight
you are white snow
you are rippling cornstalks
you are rolling hills
you are the sun setting behind the mountains
you are morning air, and dew
you are a ripple in a quiet lake
you are refracted light in a flowing stream
you are a bed of lilacs warmed by the sun

you are beauty
beauty is you

your lips touch mine, a simple revelation
that begins a revolution
walls crumble
guards stumble
as you fumble for the key
you open me and see
that I am no longer who I used to be

you found the door
that leads straight to my core
and because of you I can love like never before

so now that I’ve moved on from all that has been
I plead to you, baby, kiss me again

your eyes search me
looking for scars
that might tell where I’ve been
my body is clean

your words search me
inquiring about my past
and waiting expectantly
my response is brief

your lips search me
feeling for impressions
left by former lovers
I’ve been smoothed over

so I write this poem
to urge you to keep searching
for you are close
and will find me soon

you turn away*
the way the earth turns so the sun can't fix it's heated stare
my look merely rolls off, unabsorbed
why do you rotate?
my gaze is not meant to dry your oceans
or burn your forests
I simply wish to light your mornings
illuminate your mountains
and warm your valleys

when I die
I do not ask that you surround my body with clay soldiers in the depths of the dirt
I ask only for you to lay me down in the grass
and construct over me a monument of your words

I ask for you to speak of me as I was unable to speak of you
for I can not articulate your presence past the word love
see, my vocal cords cannot adequately express the way I feel about you
the best I can do is replace the ink of my pen with the blood of my heart
and splatter it upon the page

you know, its times when you’re there, and i’m here
that my mind fills with your thoughts
that my elbow refuses to bend because it misses your shoulder
that I pick a flower, press it to my nose, but still smell only you

its those times, when this page, is all I have of you
so instead of folding it into a paper boat and sending it down the river
I write words upon it
I write how much I miss you — and then I send it down the river

for I know that the mouth of the river is your favorite place
that you love to catch things just before they reach the open ocean
just as you caught me, before I sailed off without direction

you stopped me, you handed me a compass,
and then you climbed right onboard yourself
and we faced the open ocean together

so when I die
I ask that you speak of our journey
speak of what we learned about love’s tendency to forget the cardinal directions
so that the compass of my soul points neither here nor there
it points solely and unwaveringly to you

your hair is time
your thighs are song
your nose is grace
your scent is morning
your eyes are praise
your mouth is prose
your soul is home

noise falls away in colorful strokes
to reveal the solid backdrop of silence
a glaring white canvas with unprovoked audacity
I turn away, but find my nose pressed
against the same blank page
in frantic movements I look up, down, around
a white prairie surrounds me, deep as the horizon

as a youth, he learned the art of separation
it was the only way to survive the pain
that burned his flesh and drowned his mind

he put his heart out of reach
placing it in a tin can - his only possession

the can became battered, dented
but his heart remained untouched

he had a gift, which he bent into a barbed wire fence
to rip apart those who tried to jump over

he surrounded himself with people
who were content with looking through the holes in the fence
who didn’t need access to his heart to love him

but then he met a man
who didn’t try to jump the fence like the others

by example, this man showed him how to open fences
this man handed him vulnerability, so he could see what it looked like

holding it for the first time, he noticed that vulnerability
had the same color, same shape, same feel
as love

in fact, he realized, this complete vulnerability
was love

he had never seen it in such perfect form
bold, deep, secure

with the knowledge that such love existed
he allowed himself a feeling he had always guarded against -
hope

he used this hope to pry open the tin can in his chest
where he found a raw, shapeless lump

so he set off, vulnerable written on his chest,
in pursuit of hands that could mold his heart

a wave swells, rises, peaks, and breaks
vanishing at a single tick of the longest hand
the next wave rises, and you forget that the first ever existed

a cloud forms, fattens, floats, and falls away
another cloud takes its place - the usual white, drifting mass
the moon continues to glow, unaffected

you are born, you grow, you love, and then you die
you and your wealth, your power, your reputation
when faced with eternity, you are nothing
but a wave in the ocean, a cloud in the sky

the snow is poetry in white powder form
its words slap my cheeks
and glisten upon my nose

still flakes stir from their sleep
provoked by the wind they rise from the ground
in brief, sudden fury

I keep my head down
looking up only to steal glances at
the picture-book in front of me

and to step out of the way
of trucks trudging by
few soldiers on this lonely frontier

the footsteps of my past are covered quickly, forgotten
all the world is open to me now
a white canvas for the brushstrokes of my boots

I step out to the middle of the road
the two yellow lines lie hidden beneath my feet
tonight I don’t need their direction

I recall the nights spent looking down on this street
dreaming from my bedroom window
I’ve pictured myself skating beneath this very streetlight

so I step forward, push off and glide
the latent layer of ice makes for a slippery stage
illuminated by the light of the lamp

I turn my heel, shift my weight and spin
twirling not with the practiced grace of a dancer
but the steady hope of a dreamer

I wish I had a partner
I wish she was here
for tonight I feel invincible
tonight I am light, breathless, infinite

when I see you
I feel like a weary winter traveler
who has glimpsed the light of a fire
and knows the closer he gets
the warmer he will be

you stuffed the sharpest fragments of your past
deep into the pockets of that green coat
so that they couldn’t pierce you anymore

sometimes in conversation, your hand shifts towards a pocket
I give the gesture attention, so you go ahead and reach in

the memory you pull out, you hold before you like a line-up
I tell you I’m not taking mental-picture mugshots

all I want is to hold the parts of your past that hurt the most
and grace them with my tears

for when I look at you, I see a girl with the courage
to pick the broken fragments of her shattered self off the floor
and piece them back together

I see a girl who dares to ask the deepest questions of life
because she has already been broken
and is not afraid of the answer