There is a place

I know there is

Not one not many

But all and every

You can go there

I can too

Where grass is green

And skies are blue

There’s no train

Chugging churning rocking the land

No people rushing

To beat the drops of sand

Instead people fall with them

Accepting the ride

And holding hands

Swimming with the tide

Smiling

as wind blows their hair

to

and

fro

They’ve all realized that there’s nowhere to go.

And so they

smile and laugh and play

They know that

this is their only day

Sometime soon

the sun will set

The crops will dry

Only one thing will be wet

Their hearts，their mouths, their blood, their gore

But not to worry

Sometime soon

it will be no more.

Be no more they say be no more

Than what you are, that is your chore

As a living mortal

You see the paradox

Your hands wave round

like a ticking clock

But

all batteries die

and all hearts stop to beat

So know, dear child,

you only have two feet

Do what you can in all that you do

But remember dear child what you do isn’t you.

Its about this time of the year when the fog  feels melancholy. Sticky in the way it hugs around your fingers, and sometimes your toes. When the grey gives way to blue, and theres a breeze right aroudn midday before the sun comes in, warming your shoulders and brightening his hair.

Its right about this time of year when change sits regally on every windowsill and rooftop, reminding you that it never left, you were just fooled by the frigid frost of february covering its tracks.

Look over your shoulder, she's not there anymore. The way you left her, at the door. Its open, swinging.

And its this time of year when its spring again. And the regality of change crowns the blossoms on each branch, willowing by your doorstep. Sitting on the stoop smoking a cigarette you see the smoke, blowing in little curves to your neighbor Mani's door.

How long you'll be here, you don't know. Mani doesn't either. You both came in from the countryside, a while back expecting to find a gig singing or acting. Lately, you've both been doing that, but what you earn money for is pouring whisky and ***** and gin for people who's lives are made or lost or forgotten by whatever you give them. Sometimes it feels like you control some secret potion, like you have an elixir to share at your dispense. a secret, just like the patch of grass that lingers growing and re-growing under the february frost.

She left pretty quick- you couldn't catch her, there was no way. See you have to know that that kind of thing is coming, or get ******* lucky. But you lost her you really did. With her hair in the wind, and her eyes, so clear you could see the wind blow through them, and the sun shining rays, she used to sit on the stoop. Now that's what you've got. A pretty picture in your mind- one that's all too connected. You remember the smell the touch the heartbeat. Its all there, and it will be. It'll stay you know. She was designed for it- to break into your little shell and leave her mark, make room for herself in your life just in case the spring wasn't coming back, in case change wasn't going to slip through a hole in your pocket and fall down, down into the new york city subway to be carried and picked up and taken on odyssey upon odyssey.

You would have never known. And so, now change sits regally where she did, mocking you for having turned you into a beggar, a gypsy, a fool for little pieces of silver and gold. You begged for change, and I warned be careful what you wish for.

-Dao-

Beauty in the details. Intheplacementof spaces. In the p.o.i.n.t.s. between words.

With sense and presence, no perception, I live in truth. In a real place, not like my room, or my house, or new york. A real place, you know, like the one in your heart. The place you imagine. A real place.

Blindness veils, thoughts tear away, but when everything else quiets, I’ll get there. A real place.

Where I feel. Everything, in the palm of my hand and the beat of my heart. In the hand of a friend. In a fresh start.

Don’t prepare. Don’t obsess. Just be. Forget the rest.

There’s a sky. I promise.

There are stars and a moon.

There’s order in the world, it’s just called disorder.

Feel you’re heartbeat.

Come with me.

Don’t miss the chance to kiss the sky before you die.

Don’t ever, just get by.

Soar.

It’s all in me. Its all in you. Every molecule atom electron in the world. They move. They change. But they stay. So everything is really the same. Can you ever feel that in your heart? Sometimes I can. When I listen— sometimes I hear.

You,

your smile,

leaves blowing on the trees,

Water trickling down a stream,

Ice floating on the top.

Flowers pushing through the frost of spring,

Bloom and die, die and bloom

Come and go, go and come

Good, bad and beautiful. My heart. The world.

Stop. No-

-Dao-

Lovely lady of the night

Stars and you shining so bright

Do dearly show yourself to me

I cannot bear your mystery

Pale and crisp, of subdued hue

Your majesty in me, doth thoughts imbue

And nowhere on the blessed chain

Round earth will you too long remain

Deepest dankest darkness of the day

With your dark magic, never can it play

Your force too great, your pull stronger than seas

My fear at night, your brightness doth appease

And show me please your brilliance and your ore

As I to you, reveal my truest core

Of gold we both are made and one to test

Will we together be among the best

I know that to the sun you are betrothed

Unearthly marriage, yours here is ne’er exposed

The sparkle of the summer sun doth always fade

'fore you, bright one, come tumbling from its shade

All alone, you two do light my paths

One on one, in glory or in wrath

But query, I do have for one or both

If always separate why are thee betroth’d

In light in love in independence great

Each on its own doth true beauty create

Where to begin
I have many starting lines in mind
This happens when, like an oncoming storm,
A poem has been on its way for too long
The little, cloud of emotion, words, phrases
Creativity and art
Have been bustling in the back of my brain
And it all starts to burs in different directions
Infiltrating my rationality
My time management
My ability to concentrate on you
Or on me
Or on your luggage
My belongings
The future

Yes, this poem has been coming for far too long.
Some of the starting lines that I have considered might take you by surprise
(as many good starting lines do, and even more bad ones)
One was, “I have a beautiful face”
And the poem would go something like this
I’ve been told that I have a beautiful face
And sometimes, when I look in the mirror
I can see snippets of what people call that beautiful face
I can see the eyes that certain boys have said are pretty
I can see the cheeks that are chubby and lovable
I can see the outline of a human being with golden hair
Too often in the shape of a birdsnest behind my head
I can see the outline of me, which is also an outline of you
Where you stop and I start
You are everywhere
Except in me

Noone will make you stronger than you are
Noone will make you something that you aren’t
You can be
You can talk
You can try your best to share

But it seems that
The sharing is and has an element of consequence
It comes at the right time
When things are stable, the world is spinning steadily enough for your wine glasses to sit on the table, maybe perching, but safe, on the wooden edge
It comes at a time when you know what to do each day, and you do it
It comes at a time when you’ve figured out what’s going on
That you think you know what’s going on so you’re able to function
It comes at a time when you have a lot
Not plastic, not time, not food, not wine
You just have a lot.
There’s no word for what it is that you have
Its not love, but it might be the ingredients
You have enough of you- enough projects about you that you’ve worked on
Enough soul and love that you have devoted to yourself and other things
Those are the best
Actually maybe they’re the only
It’s a process of breaking down walls
And then building up bricks

It's a process of letting me be
Letting me giggle
And smile
And bruise, sometimes
It wont be your fault when it happens
But bruises make me stronger
They make me less willing to break down the walls
So I’ll go at a better pace
Thank you- for all of it
Especially the little bruises

I hope that I make you think
In a different way
In a new way

I hope that you can appreciate the
Simultaneously
Happy grateful loving
Pensive questioning and uncertain
Being that is me

I hope that this poem
Or letter
Or essay
Or collection of misfit words

Helps you see
That there’s a lot to me

The most that I can do with it though
Is try
To do good

I can’t say what good will come from sharing with you
But I can say that I think some will

You’re like a fortress: you don’t need, frankly, you make it seem, quite a lot like you don’t even want.

But that’s impossible because even fortresses need food and water, repairs and most importantly people to walk in them, and care for them.

I wonder- no, I hope- that in some way
Our fleeting encounters
Help you in some way
Maybe I can provide a sounding board
A bit of a mirror
Or evens simple companionship

I just hope to help
As you go through you lone path through life
Like we all do every day
That’s all, in good conscience, that I can hope

I will not take from you
I refuse
I absolutely refuse
So I cannot hope for more
At least not now

I don't know why I told you all the things that I did
If I could go back and sensor it all
I probably would
Like why would I tell you about the pink bridge
The pink bridge meant a lot to me
For different reasons
That's a story
And likely a sad one
That you don't know
I didn't know what I was doing
With my sexuality
With that of others
I didn't know what was going on
Or where I was going
But I walked across the pink bridge

Its funny
(first know that whenever I’m writing what will be a harder-to-write-clause I euphemistically write it as, it’s funny)
I feel like I cant tell you the story of my life right now
We’re too in the middle,
Smack dab front row center
And I feel like there’s just enough of it
That it can easily start to spill over the brims of the fruit basket
I’ll miss parts
I’ll miss pieces
I don't want to be needy
Or overly affectionate
I’m done with those things
With being too nice

You like to talk
About a lot of things
And you’re pretty real
The problem is that
My reality is
Different
Its one of colors
Feelings art
Words on a page like this one
This is how I live

And I’m worried,
Because I don't know
If this is what I should be doing to make a living
Since I know that it’s how I live
And feel most alive

I can always write though
In my head walking home from work
On scraps at a coffeeshop
On the kitchen table before dinner

It will never go away
I will always hold onto it

So funny
Again when I was writing this
I thought that maybe I could share it with you.
The answer to that is blatantly no.

Like all the wind that moves the seas
As time floats down
Like leaves off trees
And all the colour of black and white
The fades of eyes as dark as light

Like all the things I choose to see
So thick the air that i once breathed
With soft the touch and light as sand
As all the grains fall through my hands

But as you stare into my eyes
And reach your soul into my mind
The opposites appear and then subtract
As time starts still and white is black

You speak your voice and make it clear
To follow the truths that now appear
To make the most of what i have
Embrace the start do not look back

My blue eyed friend for now I see
The voice you speak can calm the seas
And grow the leaves back on the trees
While all the colours stay the same
The grains of sand remain in my hands

And most of all for what has changed
The fades of eyes as dark as light
The brightness subsides so I can see
The blue eyed girl in front of me

And all the words she has to speak
So thick the air that I once breathed
Is now a whisper is now a stream
Is now a smile within my dream

the lights shine bright through the night


you know when you’re in love. and the other person doesnt love you back.
when you have one of those stupid crushes
that nags at you
like an itch on the tip of your elbow
the part that you cant reach
everyone has that point
that tip on their elbow
and everyone feels that kind of love

well you know the feeling when that goes away
when you just become happy again
like a little cloud lifted and your room is clean again
the grey is gone

and you can finally smile again to yourself
and you think

standing
writing
breathing

you’re just one
and he’s just one
in this place
of so **** many

the lights shine bright through the night
and you’re all here together
and everyone is itching their elbows as best they can
but some people, for a little while, get an itch in that unlucky place

but it will pass
this too shall pass

the lights shine bright through the night
and the beat continues
people hop in cabs
people march across the bridge
people ride their bikes through blackness
delivering chicken and pizza and chinese food
and people jump on the subway
they listen to the prophets
on their way out
they go out
and party
and dance
eyes lock
numbers stain napkins
people end up in new beds
like puzzle pieces in this city
its like everyone’s doing a dance during the day
but come night fall you have to choose a place
kinda like musical chairs
but musical beds
for grown ups
and its an evil
a beautiful
a tragic
a wonderful
an endless
game.

There’s a rhythm to that song. I think I know it.

The words, I’m not so sure.

But the rhythm, that’s what counts right? That’s where the feeling is, right?

I wasn’t expecting this. I didn’t have the words.

Had no idea it was coming. Had no idea what to say.

But I knew how I felt. That’s what counts right?

Sometimes I have rhythm, sometimes I’m in time.

But I wonder, were you stepping on the same foot?

Or the opposite one? The right one?

And if I was dancing alone, was I dancing at all? Or just bumbling around like a recently evolved monkey.

Dance with me now. I write, you left

every year
is a month
that happened twelve times
every month is a week
that happened four times
every week
is a day
that happened seven times
every day is an hour
that happened twenty four
every hour
is a minute
that happened sixty times
every minute
is a second that happened.

so this second
this tiny little fleeting thing—
my dear, that’s your minute, hour, day, week, month year—
just the replay, callback, repeat buttons are a little bit stuck
so everything happens a whole bunch

but in the end its all the same

so fight
with your dear god ****** life
to make them different.
repair yourself. unstick the replay repeat callback buttons
and dont let your time be a series of play backs.
make each one a new route through the park
a new journey

to a new star
a new poem
a new sentence

lose the order of time.
you have the power to make every second different from the next

you can turn each second into an experience
a journey
a song
a rhyme
a hug
a smile
a new friend.

so dont let each year be a year

make it a scrapbook
of the world and you
a constant evolving friendship
with endless things to do.

I walked by the playground. The little kids- reminiscent of little versions of me- were bundled in puffy parkas, scarves, gloves and hats tied under their chins so tight that their chubby cheeks poured over the bow. They can barely lift their arms. They stumble and wobble, rolling around the playground, up the pyramids and down the slides. The crisp air of a warm winter engulfs them as they think about their new friends, and how they enjoy playing tag on the playground. The kids, they’ve been there forever it seems.  

Couples walk dogs. Women with curly black hair frizzing out of wrapped striped scarves, with glasses, with wrinkles. Men walking slowly behind, undistinguished, unremarkable, but peaceful nonetheless. The grey of the city pours into the park, a timeless grey filling corners that are easy to mistake as empty. Filling the cracks in the old cement all along the paths between playgrounds. Buildings stand right on the edge reminding you of where you are. Marking the minutes left you have in a playland. Soon you’ll hit the bustling streets where coats, scarves, mittens, socks mix with people walking so fast down the sidewalk in a cocktail of cold, pain, business and ambition. Sometimes cheeks flush as new lovers hold hands. Children laugh and tickle one another. But more often than not, everyone drinks the cocktail and keeps going- destinations unknown but going nonetheless.

When you’re alone you drink the cocktail, and think that you’re the only one. It makes you tell yourself to keep going, that you’ll go far. You pick some imaginary destination and push yourself towards it with all your might. Just like parents push the little bundles of pink and blue sitting on the swings at the playground.

Someday, maybe you’ll bump into someone- who will help you remember that you aren’t the only one. You aren’t the only one drinking the cocktail. And you’ll feel like maybe you can walk together, bundled now not only in your coats, but in each other. In the warmth of someone else, and the softness of their embrace.

But all too soon, one of you will trip- holding each other – one person holding on too tight, or another tripping over shoes. It’s inevitable.

There’s a bench. A bench at the intersection of three paths, one that is incredibly hard to revisit, but one that doesn’t move. It’s hard to find- at that intersection. It’s under a bridge, behind a museum, covered in shrubbery, and overcome by passersby. Under the bridge there’s a man who plays his flute. It echoes though, offering a trail of crumbs to find this place.

Go
Down to the Sea
Tell me what you see in the sand
Tell me what you see in the sky
When I hold your hand do you feel me
My heart beat
Do you see my cold breath
Steaming in the wind
Grey
Hovering above the water

One Choice
Make it well
Do you see stars
Their reflection on the water

To write
Can be self indulgent
Like blowing steaming air in a certain shape
To delight my own eyes

But I know now
That when I have nothing left to say
When my heart feels whole

I can write about your trip to the sea
And in my words
I hope you feel
Your hand
Holding on to me