Elli had never thought that the walls were strange.  Really, she didn’t think of them as walls precisely; they simply marked where her world ended.  After all, they had always been there, looming grayishly about one hundred feet from her back door.  Occasionally, strange shapes would appear at the top of the wall, silhouetted by bright lights so that she could never say what they looked like.  The sky was a perfect circle of blue or gray, depending on the weather, and it hung rather flatly overhead.  Elli’s house had pristine white walls with a red tile roof, exactly like the other four houses in her little slice of existence.  There was one other child besides Elli, but he was a baby who barely spoke.  

Not that anyone else said much either.  The adults seemed happy enough she supposed and treated her with kindness, but they all looked at each other knowingly, with resignation.  

Elli couldn’t understand why that was so; they had everything they needed here: food, water, clothing, each other.  The weather was even cooperative for the most part, raining just often enough to keep the trees and flowers alive, and never getting cold enough to warrant anything heavier than a long-sleeved shirt.

She had to admit, though, it did get a little boring occasionally.  But, just as soon as she thought she would cry with boredom, a new toy would appear, or a new type of flower for her to discover.  When she asked her mother where these things came from, she would go tight-lipped, then relax, and say gently that they were gifts from Above.

What ‘Above’ was, precisely, no one could (or would) tell her.  So she made it up.
Elli thought that Above was quite mysterious, but it must be benevolent because it gave her so many gifts.  She would talk to Above sometimes, but it never answered; it only came with more presents when she had tired of the old.  Often, Above’s presents to Elli were in the form new discoveries, and very occasionally in the form of an actual toy.

One day, Above gave Elli a mysterious gift: a sketchbook and three pencils.  She was unsure what to do with them at first, but after some experimentation she discovered that one end of the pencil made a mark, and the other end could make the mark disappear.  That discovery alone delighted her, and for a while, she busied herself simply with the process of marking and erasing.

Next, Elli started to put the marks together in ways that pleased her, and eventually filled the entire sketchbook with abstract drawings.  She thought she would erase them all and start over the next day, but when she woke up that morning, another sketchbook and three new pencils were stacked on top of the old.  She squealed with glee.

Elli took the sketchbook out to her favorite tree that day, and as she sat in its shade, it occurred to her that she might be able to replicate what she saw around her on her paper.  
Elli began to draw.  

She explored everywhere for things to draw, and as she followed the curve of the concrete wall late that afternoon, she saw a strange object on the ground, half hidden by a large bush.

Bending down to take a closer look, she noticed that whatever the object was, it was flush with the ground and seemed to have space below it.  Elli thought that was odd; she had always assumed the ground was utterly solid, and to find that there was a seemingly endless hole underneath was disconcerting.  She set her sketchbook and pencils down and reached out for the object.

It was covered in a reddish dust that came off on her fingers.  She grabbed the grate and pulled a bit.  It rattled invitingly.  Acting on impulse, Elli grabbed the cover with both hands and heaved; it was heavy, but not unmanageable, and she soon had it off and found herself staring down a dark tube.  She knelt down, stuck her head in, and shouted.  The echo of her shout leapt away down the tunnel.

Elli backed away from the hole and sat down, contemplating her discovery.  One thing was certain: her little world was not as little as she had thought.

Eventually, Elli decided that the peculiar hole would have to wait.  She was getting hungry, and the thought of her mother’s cooking enticed her.  So, with some effort, Elli pulled the cover back over the hole and dusted her hands.  It would be waiting for her to explore tomorrow.

The next morning, Elli raced out to the hole and dragged the off the cover.  Again, she shouted and listened to the echo of her voice leave her behind.  

She wondered where the echo went.

Finally, curiosity got the better of her, and dragging her sketchbook and pencils with her, she lowered herself into the darkness.  

As her feet touched the bottom, she noticed that the hole had become tall enough for her to stand in.  Looking up, she realized that she would not be able to go back that way. She shook off that thought, and turned her face to the darkness.

The tunnel was damp, so Elli slid her sketchbook protectively under the front of her shirt.  The further she got from her entry point, the darker it became, until she could no longer see anything.  

For the first time in her life, Ellie knew fear.  

She thought of her friend, Above.

I don’t like this; I really don’t like this, Elli said to Above in the darkness.  Can you hear me, Above?  I’d like a gift to help me get out of here.  Please?

No answer came, but Elli knew that that was what would happen.  Above never spoke to her.  She felt wetness well up in her eyes, felt it trail down her face, and touched it with her fingertips.  Her fear abated a little as she stood in the darkness and nothing extraordinary happened.  Elli sniffed.

Picking up her courage, she continued forward in the darkness, feeling her way along the damp walls of the tunnel.  Suddenly, she heard a loud scraping noise overhead.  She jumped back, stumbled over her feet, and dropped her sketchbook in a puddle.  A sliver of light appeared in the ceiling, widening as the scraping noise continued.  Elli looked up, frozen, fear returning vengefully.  Light filled her section of tunnel.  She looked up, blinking at its brightness.  

A strangely elongated hand appeared, silhouetted against the light, reaching out for her.  Elli gasped.  It’s all right, the hand said, I will help you.  I am here to get you out of the tunnel.  Elli didn’t move.  Another strange hand appeared, and together, they reached for her, grasped her, and hauled her out of the darkness.  

Elli looked at the owner of the hands, into a face entirely unlike any she had seen before; the eyes were much too large, and the irises were an iridescent purple.  It didn’t have a nose, and its mouth was decidedly small.  It looked upon her with what she could only fathom was worry and concern.  There were others, standing, watching.

Who are you? Elli asked.
We are Above, it said.
And Elli knew nothing at all.

I never thought about my whiteness,
other than to realize
that I’m ghost-white
and therefore
not as attractive as some
tan buxom babe.
I thought more
about my economic status:
upper middle class
with plenty
that would give me a leg up,
that I knew I’d never
lack for higher education.
It has gradually occurred to me,
though,
that even though I may have
a societal advantage
being white and all that,
I’m still a chick
and therefore have
several strikes against my success,
or at least a comparable salary.
Not to mention the load of ridiculous
expectations to be
mother, successful career woman,
housekeeper, **** star, and ******.
Hooray for the Bible Belt,
where church is next door to the ***
Adult stores targeted
at hick white males.
Hooray for my mother’s
Texas family
where it’s okay for an adopted
daughter-in-law
to be gay
but nobody else is allowed
and some of them will look
down their noses at my
Indian boyfriend
and ask me why
I’m diluting
my blood with a foreigner.

You can never tell when/if they’re coming
will they reach/snag your sweater
with their mossy claws
and leave your body shaking/rigid in the darkness, and you
*******/choking your own breath.

You might/never see them,
you can(t) always feel their
breath, sticky on your sweating neck/knees
as they stalk with practice/perfection,
keeping you blind/sided.

Perhaps they are circling/behind
but they still he(a)rd your dank mind and
they can taste/fear because you taste it,
acid/tar clinging to the back/tongue
clutching the roof of your mouth
s(l)eeping in(to) your lungs.

Your sense of direction(less)
lost in attempt to hang (on) tattered flesh
to remind your self of time/reality?
to wonder where/when you left you and whether
you’ll ever walk back to your body—

But this, this is yours/your mind/mindless
being surreptitiously shepherded,
invisible to your eyes/your intuition,
which seeks/bares(t) gasps of light.

Hang on to those/sustenance,
gaps in the cloth of your (de)constructed mind
that withers/shreds/hopes again
only to find claws closing closer.
Where’s your reality?

Find it/they’ll get you/they’ll have you
You’ll have you what’s the difference?
When your mind is severed from its guy wires
just as your earthquake saunters from quiver to roar
and it all (col)lapses, you swallow you
into cavernous depths where your calamities/

I can feel us on the edge here
this narrow ridge we’re hiking
it’s thin enough in places
that I’m nearly certain we’ll
topple down the side

But we haven’t yet and
it could be your acrobatics
or mine
that’s got us still balancing
in an act a professional
tightrope walker
would balk at

We’re daring though
and the view from up here
so far is breathtaking
and the thrill of chill wind
against our faces
exhilarating

The peak not yet in sight
shrouded in soft white fog
that was forecast to disappear
by noon
instead it’s rolling down the side
thickening and reaching
for us

Our view goes white with gray
eddies loosely defined
interludes of curling air
the pebbled ground slowly fading
so we clasp our hands together
it’s less stable but
comforting
as the mist swirls between us

Soon there’s nothing
no outline
the last wisp of your hair
is gently consumed
into this vaporous world
where only a touch
obstructs
surreal isolation

Lean into me
eyes wild
I’ll watch lust
dance at the surface
when—

Lean into me
tear trails
etched in dust
I’ll hold on
until—

Lean into me
lips feverish
embrace must
last unbroken
but—

Lean into me
and feel
ourselves rust
as rain drips down
until—

Lean into me
for now
we can trust
we’ll never know
when—

until—

but—

—

I look into the box
Her fabric folds of flowers are blue,
mine are pink and periwinkle, I’m wearing lace socks.
Mother stands behind me.
She is the only person-shape I understand

I stand in the doorway
A hand on my shoulder
Lying in bed, she beckons me
She’s not wearing her wig today.
Gently pushes a teddy bear into my hands.
From the Queen Elizabeth II.
Later, person-shapes
I don’t understand yet
but I see her sift out the chimney

Scattering her to the sea lapping my feet
My mother, her sisters watch the sun sink
drink caipirinhas

My first glass of champagne

A neighbor finds her at the bottom of the stairs
They do an autopsy
—painkillers—
Gracie’s eyes are dead too.
We bring flowers, despite allergies
because it’s convention.
First time I am also a person-shape.

A repeat.
She lies there, no wig.
A few hairs on the plush pillow.
Another box.
More flowers.
This time I lose shape altogether.

This one’s farther away
more peaceful
I don’t know him very well
I hover outside their grief this time.

A teacher.  My teacher.
Healthy.
Sometimes it surprises you:
he doesn’t look real—
only person-shaped.

But then, they never do.

Vertical majesty unfurls
across the sky;
so many green dreams blossom
to gently sift the wind.

These, new—
born from age and cracked brown skin
gaze upon withering cities
that sprawl out from the earth,
rooted in foundations of steel
instead of life.

Their silver trunks echo mine,
but are devoid of the lilting dreams
that begin to flourish in my arms
only to fall away.

How dare you!  How dare you!
Club night tequila margherita stains
and the loose thread
you yanked
when you rubbed your
sweaty body all over
some ***** stranger
on the dark dance floor.
Strobe lights pulsing
with your libido
until he sloshed beer
down your front
when a drunken brawler
stumbled into the crowd
Oh, I’m sure HE
apologized
such a considerate guy
to take home
for mom to find
you in bed with
in the morning.
Thanks for your
consideration.

They bustle, hustle
like ants in a box,
going nowhere, nowhere,
pop up to my counter top
from their semi-ordered line

I take their orders, same as last time:
Venti-turtle-soy-sugarfree-latte-extrafoam-nowhippedcream
a­nd I swipe their plastic cards through my machine.
What a dream, a dream.

Chatter, swipe, shout, sign-here-please
And scatter on out with marginal ease—
hands full of coffee cups, bagels, cream cheese
Calling a boss, late again (I laugh,
I’ve been here since six,
and they think they’ve got a tough schedule to keep?)

When it’s finally time, I take my break,
stare at the syrups, the powders, the cakes,
and pour my coffee black
with nothing that’s fake.

She was effervescent, they told me.
When she took her mask off—
Her composed features would crack
And a glow came from underneath
Through the fissures
When she took her mask off—
The pure, white shell would fall away
And reveal golden glory,
The unseen strength that surged forth
When she took her mask off—

Your breath froze
long before I could hold you again,
Your pressed flower skin
fragile as a moth.
And when I looked down at you,
your eyes would not meet mine...
And when my lips felt the caress of your hand,
it was only heavy and cold.

She looked down at her feet with blue eyes,
Her hair bouncing commercially.
Pink straps lashed down each delicate foot;
The rhinestones at the ankle strap flashed gaudily,
Beckoning other girls to follow those feet anywhere.

She looked at the clerk with blue eyes.
A fashionable smile marred her face briefly,
As she blinked down at the person who, before,
Had been taller than she.
Teeth glinted to match the stones on the shoes,
Which she carefully removed from her feet,
And handed to the clerk.

She looked into her purse with blue eyes,
And pulled from it with vacation brown hands,
A wallet, in which was placed her father’s credit card.
She drew the card out of the leather pocket,
Using a natural, swift motion,
And placed it on the efficient mall counter.

Anesthesia seeps into me and settles
like plaque into my arteries
where it converses with my blood.
I let its ugly yellow fingers swagger through,
waving their malicious banners
proclaiming my surrender.

My lungs breathe chafing dust
that conspires
and leaves me suffocating
under the silent sands of guilt
that build up into graceful dunes.

My mind loves the desert in my lungs
despite the lifeless contours;
it is far away, removed and sees
a sweeping landscape, patterned
by the winds, my rattling breath.

But my heart lives next door
to that forsaken terrain.
It feels the pain of the parched *****,
gone unacknowledged by my mind.
It feels the lecherous caress
of the ugly yellow fingers
that violate my blood,
stroking, disgustingly, inside my veins.

Still my mind remains
Doorless
Windowless
Refusing to see.
Serenely smooth, impenetrable Reason.

My heart has no hands
to hold a hammer or a sword.

Yet Your tongue is a sword,
Your words a hammer of consciousness,
Your expression the oil to reignite
shimmering embers buried under ashes.

My mind’s shield becomes an eggshell—
it shatters, flinging shards away,
letting the newly lit inferno roar
through every capillary, burning away
the ugly yellow fingers.

Winds from within gust through my lungs,
force the desert from my chest.
The sand rends my throat and lips
in its storm of escape,
and the blissful tears that rain from my eyes
quench my arid lungs.

The fire recedes into my heart, where it burns
white-hot and pure—
My eternal sun that gleams within,
to You, I surrender.

—That 'Oh ****' moment
right as you catch your toe
on the crack in the sidewalk—

—the ground rushing up
no matter how awesome
your impression of a windmill—

—and for some godforsaken reason
that ***** street-water puddle
is always there to 'catch' you—

—and your bag of groceries.

purple skies,
moonlit fog dances
silhouette trees
she stands, poised
cliff’s edge,
dropping
whipped
on silver breeze
turns her face,
soul flying
quiet, alabaster disc
reflected—
still waters
she steps away
the air
serenely flashing
sliding from the sky
moon twin
disturbing.

She stares down through the open window;
sheer ragged curtains flap gently inward,
casting thin moon shadows on linoleum.

Her bare toe traces the square pattern habitually,
with the slow sensuous movement
of a crooning night melody.

She watches the dark contour of a man in the street,
barely illuminated by the dimming lamp;
watches as he turns and clicks down cracked pavement.

Her brown chest constricts, sigh persuaded forth,
and deep eyes follow his swaying walk
as hope fades.

In her hand is a reflection of the moon on metal,
curved to the shape of the barrel;
her finger strokes the trigger.

She raises her hand, pulls;
the melody reverberates on the window panes
an unforgiving song, an irreversible song.

She stares down through the open window;
sheer ragged curtains flap gently inward,
casting thin moon shadows on linoleum.

Depth beyond
edges of the
Universe
Core of light
demure yet
it gently
illuminates
fabric folds,
blows away
the dust moats
surround my
tapestry
rippled though
time because you
added a
beautiful
stitch.

In fidelity sleeping
a tremulous void
that circumvents
the face of lies.
I’ll tarry here,
where the room
drips madness
thick like congealing
blood in the rain.
And the walls separate
twisting in deception
for my mind unbound
scathed in trembling coals
My blood
I am the madness
Dripping.

Run your fingers over my chest
pick apart my shirt, thread by thread
and crush the fibers between your fingers
til you've laid my skin bare
Let your frigid breath caress my *******
and perk my ******* in parody of arousal

Then bring that silver blade you've been twirling
idly in your elegant hands,
trace its sharpened edge from my neck to my heart
Leave a stark line of red in your wake,
for it tells me that reality is here,
pinned under your gaze

You have no need for restraints, no cuffs of shining steel,
your piercing eyes and the bow of your lips
are enough to keep me perfectly still
even as you slide your blade between my ribs and twist
like a rusted key in a lock
my bones slide apart

Rivulets of red run down my pale skin,
drawing mockeries of words I can't express
between my shallow, gasping, shuddering breaths
Watch my heart beating in my open chest,
and sink your fingers in around the arteries
let my blood flow over your hand

Squeeze hard.

Her two golden lamps made me pause,
As she spread her liquid gaze upon my flesh,
And slowly blinked
When she discovered that I stared back.

The dry valleys of age ran crazily over her face,
Deepening as she squinted in the sun,
A sun whose weakening hold on life
Put forth its meager attempt at warming her.

Her tattered, faded scarf was wrapped demurely
About her head; I am sure they had lived together long
And seen and watched many like me pass
On the graying pavement.

When she approached, she was like an old cart
With as many creaks, the difference being that
There was no one to pull her, help her along;
Certainly not I, who was mesmerized by her limping stride.

She cast her golden lamps into mine, lifting the shade;
I could see where her pride had been interred,
Left for dead, yet a shred of dignity still tried to dance,
As she plaintively asked,

“Could I, perhaps, have but a cent?”

Give me your glass
I'll give you mine—
Drink down that liquid fire
Watch it gleam in our eyes

Smiles conspire
We'll light up this town—
I'll start, drop my cigarette
alight on the ground

This bar is a beacon
A torch in the night—
Sparks singe our skin
Raw but it feels right

Give me your glass
I'll give you mine—
Drink down that liquid fire
Watch it gleam in our eyes

We tear through the streets
leave flames behind—
raze the city
with heat off our tires

They won't ever catch us
in our deadly machine
'cause we run on agent orange
instead of gasoline

Give me your glass
I'll give you mine—
Drink down that liquid fire
Watch it gleam in our eyes

I'll kiss you and accelerate
forget about the wheel—
taste heat on our tongues
our incendiary dream is real

Veer into the flames
our sins will detonate
a sensuous Little Death
for our immortality.

A darkness surrounds them, dripping rhythmically
a metronome for the songs of silence.
Their voices shadows of sorrow, grating softly
Glass carefully crushed under the weight of loss.

Their melody rises and falls with the tide
Of new souls seeping into the drip, drip, dripping
Metronome for the songs of silence,
To add their sketchy voices to the throng.

I get the impression
that you like me the way you like dessert:

praising my appearance, presentation,
eyeing a swirl of cream,
licking your lips at the sparkle of glacé

Anticipation.

When you cradle me gently
in the curve of your silver spoon:

your tongue samples my sweet delight,
fleeting flavors hold your senses enraptured
the lingering aftertaste beckons

More.

Your silver spoon scrapes
the bottom of the glass bowl:

melted cream pools languidly,
my last sweet aftertaste slips from your tongue
while you do the dishes.

The pillars of society are strong, we think;
Built out of stone of what we deem
Simple
Basic
Principals.

Stones

Are strong, we think;
But stones can be broken if you try,
And some are not as strong as others, however,
Simple
Basic
Principals

Should be stronger than the strongest

Stones

Yet
Stones, and
Simple
Basic
Principles
Have been warped, tilted, and broken
Over time, trials, tribulations
The earthquakes of centuries have changed

The face of the earth and exposed new

Stones

And covered old ones, but
Sometimes, old ones are dug up, hailed
As fossils, and put into museums to demonstrate
Simple
Basic
Principles

And teach the young
How to form their plastic bodies to stones,
Even if the stones are unwashed,
Fresh from the ground
*****

Stones

Brown and gray
Simple
Basic
Principles
That a child sometimes finds to be
Hollow in the middle.

Sometimes I feel as if I've missed the train,
even though my ticket says otherwise.

Its angular writing ought to puncture the dream,
yet I find myself staring the other way down the tracks.

So I walk down the platform until it comes to an end,
wondering what destination might have been.

Fading memories disperse
like ***** rags yanked from the clothesline
in a hot dry gust.

The pins that held the dusty garments
dangle upside down,
their rusty hinges
no longer stain the cloth,
but the line that memories left behind.

This morning I lit a small candle by my bedside
to remember my promises—

I left, came back to do my hair
and shook the can of hairspray that holds me together—

For a while, we put our problems in a box in the attic.
We'd visit, now and again, to deposit an annoyance or two.
But then we started adding bigger problems, and space became tight.
We bought a trunk.  It was cedar, designed to keep the moths (and our consciousness) out.

One day you went up there, and discovered I'd taken up nearly the whole trunk
with a gray sweater, full of holes, coming undone at the seams.
You wanted to know how it got there— you'd never seen it before.
I didn't exactly remember putting it there, at least not all at once.  
It would explain its tattered nature.
You told me to just get rid of it.  It's all worn out, you said.  What's the use keeping it?
I told you I was still working on finding all of the pieces.
You acquiesced.  You usually do.

For a while, the trunk was all we needed.
I left the house and came back with more pieces for that gray sweater.
It eventually became more of a blanket, but the trunk still kept it in, though the wool
would threaten to spill out in tufts whenever I opened the lid.

Eventually, it overflowed the trunk, creeping out onto the floor, down the attic steps.  Into the house.
You asked if I'd found all the pieces yet.
No, I haven't.  The bigger it gets, the more holes it sprouts.
I start to wonder if I've been making new holes to patch old ones, taking thread from the seams,
and leaving the edges ragged, fraying.
I'm fraying.
And neither one of us is good at sewing.

The sounds of my footsteps were swallowed in dusty silence
Until chimes came through, shaken by the wind
Into vibrant chords and intricate melodies.

The last vestiges of autumn sifted through the air
Whose breath bore tints of frost that subtly twisted
Into my lips to tinge them blue.

The fading sun cast a symphony of golden tongues
Across misty ridges into shaded ravines
As the sliver moon beckoned night and winter.

rhythm presses against my skin
grips my hips along with your hands
our eyes lock and we dip
with music's command

as bass binds our bodies
attunes my curves and your long lines
steps mesh and we twist with
the riff of a Gibson

that licks the sweat right off our skin
scales our spines and pins our lips
together in one electric rush
voltage high and just enough

as we fling this dance
into unbound lust
and spark cadenzas
in our bodies' crush

Our hands are under the table
that subterranean space where
we can speak without talking
and still mind our own tasks

Our separate screens are reflected
in our eyes, and we’re being diligent
as your thumb slowly traces
the contour of my palm

I breathe in and bite my lip
and I don’t know if it’s because
I’m considering a question on my screen
or you just ran your fingers through mine

I wonder if you're aware of
your claim on my current composure
the gentle pressure of your hand increases
and I carefully control my breath

I'm somehow still checking answers
and your reading’s still steady and thorough
our eyes haven’t wavered from our work
though your hands are making me want

Interior silence
Resounds
Reverberates
Through thin vessel walls.
How this heart has been betrayed
By the body
Whose mind let go nobility.
And refined the slithering ideas
Of duplicity
Interior silence
Hollow, hallow
Treasonous
To the consciousness of desire.
What happens
When the blood betrays
The very heart that pumps it
Through the mind?

They turned the lights out
on us again
they turned the lights out
so pull me in
your pool of candle light
we’ll find
firelight’s hotter
than the halogen kind
that’s cold like window’s
panes of glass
we’ll mist them up
with our breath’s caress
ghosting across
my hands.

Effortless gaze, turned upon
varnished wood and open keys;
A perfect melody ringing forth
never drew me in like that night, when
I discovered that
loneliness really was
oppressive, and my
Vermillion lips shaped words, an
elegant, beautiful declaration, like
your hands
On black and white, dancing,
Unleashed.

Lift—
Let it go
Watch it sail
flame arcing
as it turns
and falls
another rises
as I catch—
toss—
release—
light dances
on the faces
in the crowd
holding breath—
heat licks
at my hands
but I
haven't felt
the burn—
the torches
are long
enough
yet—

In the wake of wistful winds
Blue fog shuffles and descends
Depresses graying grass into darker earth
And burdens arthritic joints of trees
Whose auburn graces
Suppressed
By deepening mist

Cries of tarnished gold
Wilt, brief petals sigh away their lives
Unheeded beauty pushed aside

Cream and Red striations
wind along the wall
In places dirt obscures them
still I heed their call
to follow twisting passages
unending canyon hall—

Yet parched map lines waver
heat bends and turns the air
here I am left breathless
and thirsty in my stare.

Twin peaks pierce the sky
air of my reality twines
around their reaching heights

Eddies of stone slip under
my breath-blown snow
and winding clouds slide
into each fold and crevice
as I search for the path to
fiery gold striations
living in the center seams

But I have to breathe
and the caverns give way
to narrow passages
that condense my breath
suffocating into stillness

Temptation,
laugh at me—
we’ve been here before
together
this is the part where
you slide your hands down my sides
and whisper—
Sweet Nothings
about how we could
bend and twist
and it sounds like
such a rush
until I remember how
last time you just
made me
a Gordian Knot
that I had to cut up
from sheer frustration—
But I threw out
the scissors when I was done
and I really
don’t want
to shred this one apart
with my teeth—

That would hurt,
you know.

My heart withers when it sees
your perceived world of twisted fantasies
and it wonders where you went
and why these demons seem so
completely yours,
and yet,
in the end, they are always mine?
Where have you gone, and
Why don’t I know you anymore,
But did I ever really
When I tried to look inside you and me
to see where maybe our hearts would meet,
And instead I found cavernous uncertainties
that loomed from my arteries,
swallowing your overtures of surface grace
Who are you,
Now?
And who am I, indeed
with my façades of sanity,
And thoughts that rush uncontrolled
toward cliffs and over waterfalls—
And how can my mind lash you
until your images are like tattered ribbons
of surreal flesh,
Until you are not there,
and suddenly there’s only the anger
of my flaming stare?

The night prowls gently
Just skims the ground,
Brings truth,
As all things shift
To darkness, breathing
In wait of

The orb
The eye
The white glow
Evenstar, awake,
Show the patterned iris
Entrance without a blink
Earth’s emerald call.

Sift the folds of light through
Dusty night in
A forest of dim arches,
Cast a gaze upon branches,
Smooth seeming

Yet they know eternities
Of watching
One another sway
In the spirit of wind

A silvery presence
In the midst
Of earth’s core truth,
The mind of alone
Whispers of hunger
In the night

That prowls gently.

The ring you gave to me
bore a beautiful trillion stone,
and a band with artistic wave
polished to perfection shone.

The shine obscured the lie,
your dazzling artifice,
for in place of gold and gem,
salt and sulfur kissed.

You're beautiful, we want you with us,
they chorus, pale hands grasping,
their ghostly holograms of consciousness
project across a network of artificial minds

Desperate to materialize,
and turn their ephemeral bodies
into undulating flesh,

They graze their fingers across my vision
trailing electrons in their wake
that insistently whisper, Make us Real.

How swiftly
Your eyes took me
by surprise
Distilling joy
How can I begin
to describe
The rushing tide
That curls up to my heart?
Your words
are like the breakers
On the beach
That roll in, fleeting,
But always returning
With a new mystery
Of something brought
From the blue.
What can I offer you,
But my shores, my cliffs
That flow through time?
To you, and meet you
Not at the edge,
Like so many see
at the surface,
But beyond
Where not anyone
But us can be
Where the roots
of  land
converge
with the depths
of sea.

Look down— broken
Glass reflects an image in pieces,
Jagged blue edges
Perpendicular
To obsidian gravel thick with
Tar.
Put them together,
They will never fit
Not completely, some pieces
Disintegrated
Into time, where memories are
Made.
Not for you, nor me,
Anyone can see
Through the shards
Strewn
Like no one cared, under the wheels
Of a car
Going, going…
Nowhere.

worlds collide
on a yellow night
lies slicker than the sun
pooling on horizon lines
color starting to run
down sloping sides
of alibis
waiting to
come undone
when moonlight
shreds the hues
of sleight
presents it all
from dark to bright
shadows dance
where once was
light.

I'm waving my arms like people do
when they've leaned too far out over the edge,
and a helpful branch is just out of reach.

You've stretched out calmly, soaking the sun,
looking at me with your head cocked
and wondering why I won't come sit down.

I never liked dolls.
Their hard, impersonal faces were immovable,
Their distant, glass eyes fixed somewhere past me.
Only their frail hair yielded to touch,
But it collected dust more quickly.

Fist the sheets
eyes wide open
scream
wild crimson
rushes
scatters
can’t breathe—

Smooth sun slides across the cerulean sky
And reaching trees drip gleaming arias
Into wilting snow.
Tears of winter course down channeled trunks
As snaring frost recedes into time
Memory still aglow.