The silence of solitude
sings to me at night;
soul-satisfying
words whispered
for my ears only
while the house sleeps.
I draw from the well
of my self, and savor
each drop thirstily.
The starving beast within
gnaws at every fresh
crust of aloneness,
melted butter soothing
scalded hands,
until my rumbling gut
is sated, and is at peace
with itself and the world.

What should I tell you,
That I haven't already?

What I should I give you,
That you don't have already?

Guardian of my sanity,
I have lost everything to you,

What a great loss I've had,
For I've finally found you,

I have nothing left,
No abundance to offer you from,

I am but an empty pitcher,
I hope you will drink from

Sometimes it feels like a distant memory,
there is fog in its place.
But I see the plea in your eyes
and I try my hardest to remember.

Hanging off my every word,
and you use adjectives
that have not been subject to my ears
for ever such a long time.
Amazing.
The spark in your eyes flaring, wildly.
Excitedly.

The afternoon sky with its wine dark clouds
red blushed and blue, moments before the rain drenching greys
the scurrilous skies, the black winged silhouettes that fly
amid the cactus trees, thick with chaparral
a total reconstruction of sunny soft memories
this cold tumbling storm that moves overhead
to form, this desert raining lake.

Sticky sweet memories
cling to the side
of my mason jar mind

Like blackberry jam.

Berries plucked
and kisses stolen
beneath a sultry summer sky.

Nothing but sweat and
white teeth and
purple stained finger tips.

But now it's cold--
too cold
for blackberries.

I spread what's left
of the jam
on some dry toast

And savor the taste.

"shop closed"
the sign never sat
perfectly on any hook
or nook
or cranny
you are an echo bounced
perfectly in every hook
and nook
and crook

"considered sold once broken"
consider it done
once dealt with the devil
his ornamental fairies
consider them whole before
they were bought

"trespassers will be prosecuted"
bedsheets spun out of cobwebs
sandcastles spun in of air
floorboards swallow you in
you dreamt of
anchoring yourself
to the ground

"wine house"
lustre of turbulent pirouttes
trapped within the walls
of wine glasses and
wine-stained dresses
in cadavers' masquerade

"emergency only"
they pushed you in the operating theatre
and cleaned their hands with soap
opera
amputate these phantom limbs
pain has been the only anaesthesia

"in loving memory of"
he is the protagonist
he is the antagonist
and all stories end*
(with)              
                     the former

She is my favorite part of the night,
         before the end of the day.

Why do they demand so many things from us?

Hair color must be natural.
Go to church.
Get married.
Have children.
Make more money.
Limit your language.
Do not get tattoos.

This is my body, this is my spirit, this is my life.
No one may understand you.
You may feel no one loves you for you.
You may hate yourself for being so different.

But you are amazing.
You are perfect in your imperfection.
You are strong.
You are talented.
You make this world a better place because you dare to be different.

Dare to be yourself.
Because it matters.