My hair is a mess of antennae-
Each piece picks up static of days
dead and gone.

I run through the noise with unmanned hands- feeling the weight of each lock.

Where’s the golden child?
The girl with a head full of health?
Of ringlets
yet to be devoured by time, sweat and dissonance.

As I drift I hear the voice of my mother fading- her chord was cut and motioned off-air in the wake of new administration.

Memories trapped in the roots of straightened strands. Her signal comes through as a muffled cry:

“These ends may be swept away,
but my music will still play
through your stereo.”

Oh how it must itch-
The lady whose body is
Covered in hard plaster.
Finely carved face of alabaster.

The miracle maiden!
The matriarch with
The eternal smile
Could never feed
A hungry child

The dress she wears is a
Skin tight suit.

Shield atop shield.
Even in the heat.
her sweet baby ****
Burning beneath
Layers upon layers.

Prayers upon prayers
Would only save her.

My very favorite window
I pass you every day
Sometimes the sun shines
Through the coruscant pane
Each time we meet in silence
But words would be pointless
For you are just glass; I can see right through you
You must see me too

My very favorite window
Inanimate but not lifeless our
Rapport resembles rain
That rolls like tears upon the hour
I pass you as we share reflection
If only I could pause time to sit and stare to wonder and cry
Against your cool surface

My very favorite window
I love you the most
Wind who whistles
Like the moaning of a ghost
I know you must get lonely
Although company passes, they ignore the beauty
Your sublime conveyance of nature's seasons is why
You're my favorite window

Tapestry colored,
take the tick out of my heart and let me bleed out.
My eyes are shallow wells for a face that needs help.

                   A body that sees no reason

                                 taken back
                                 tied down
                              tucked under

                   A b-b-b-bomb blasting off

                                   seconds

                    before the big hand could

                  cover her own clocked head.
                                  
Here no mantle is sacred.
ripples in our veil unfolding
each crease, streak and stain seals a moment:
Her love suppressed and Her faded light
the fabric of one life,
the symbol of many,
measured against the steps of
indefinite epitomes.

there is magic in a steaming cup
in seeing with sick eyes
through the white morning

A woman who moves in silence
Her face softened by the distance

She carries a life
not numbered
a beating heart for two
so big the walls bend around her
as if to say
“nevermind the others”

As I look around I can clearly see the once ease and hustle of life
Now all that remains is a void
Even the wind which gave the illusion of life to everything it touched has gone nothing much
And so the stillness taints everything I see
Now even the quiet is chaotic, nothing left to breath the air
To move the trees
Alone and dying
I sit crying
Left to my bittersweet memories of life.

I am the eye on your shelf
I am the scratches of ink
that rip through unbarred arenas-
when sunken bones and unburied prints
amass a clump of
galloping words
tracing measured tracks
of battles forlorn

Hence my history beckons and the
leather straps like tires
machinal; my life
reduced to rubble burn-marks
in a book that
made you look
without a care
for where-
to put it.

another whisper in the wind which once
carried its conquered careful balance
Now sits still as a spineless paperweight
propped up by the heap of dust
in your periphery

I wish there were more words in my mind
I have so little now and they're hard to find
Can't you undo the ties just by looking into my eyes
I'm not so cold and empty

Break the barriers binding us both

I wish I had a voice like liquid gold
I could sing to you and let my thoughts unfold
Can't you undo the ties just by looking into my eyes
I would speak to you gently

Grace in Lace
She’s draped across
  seas of eyes
   and endless face.

I felt her fall
heart enflamed
consumed beast and
   lifeless streaks
clutch at her sides.

Let moments guide
to memories real-
  Give it up.
Let go until
you notice the time.

This womb we create
Follows a pattern
Old as time
And human desire

Tarnish as we may
The fabric of existence remains
Stained but absolute
And the mark of beginning

Breathes on-

fear winding upward it
speaks of gusted nests.
a tap tap tap-
at one window
the timeless
tick vex stick

chicken skinteeth
curling up your spine

the glass hilt of another
ice cold slap
or heat-ironed patch
to soothe the eye

Glowing Friend-
I worship.
My new religion screen

keep it in a
knot running
stitch by stitch
bound up
scrapbook
tell the need of longing

The old lady caught up to me
fell asleep forgotten and woke up free
in the magpie madness
cobblestone cradle race

god called me today
with a mouthful of autumn leaves
spider fingers nesting at my navel
I hear her heartstrings
plucking out a buried song
in the last longing lookback
of seasonal surrender

Hello sludge, how is the hammering?
Are the bricks sinking nicely down your sweaty grungy grime?
A house isn’t built in a day.
Take your time.

What a joy you must be having!
The grit-in-your teeth-taste only gets better the more you writhe and cry.

Labor of love on this sunny day - squirm!

We revel in this lie.
We watch him strive,
with all his might,
to make a home
on a bed of
blazing tar.

This restless night I summoned history.

It comes to me as a sound:
two tones, and an image:
one lonely satellite-
cold and empty,
drifting,
my eyes see nothing but stars.

My weight in cells,
particles
metabolizing and collapsing,
carry on
through time and space,
until,
eventually-

I return again.

I live underground—
with fiendish hands
that reach through
the dirt and mass,
grasping at a sound.

To their mile-wide gaze
of white wall eyes,
my lungs collapse,
crumble and fold—
taken in and out of sight.

Through earthly glass,
I am a broken con artist.
My cries, a faux pas,
my skin off-brand,
while somewhere
a heart beats, embodied.

Amidst
this push-pull throng,
a long goodbye speaks
to dead space,
bearing dead weight
down on the world—

Commodify my breath.
Call me sanctioned off.
Ship me to the doorstep
of a funeral home,
where I can be buried again
in my fever-hot coffin.
One would call it a soul,
forever dropping in—
from the other side.