Our hearts beat mighty with body’s delight,
With those colorful little squares we ate,
And the colors danced on the walls all night.

The carpet glowed in gold and purple light,
The couches breathed softly under our weight,
Our hearts beat mighty with body’s delight.

The notes of the music were slim and slight,
We swayed primeval with an awkward gait,
And the colors danced on the walls all night.

The bedroom wall so pristine, so white,
Begged us to please come and to create.
Our hearts beat mighty with body’s delight.

Inspired, we drew our spirits’ insight,
So our lines swirled and dissolved into fate,
And the colors danced on the walls all night.

The images twirled into daylight,
While our frames continued to oscillate,
Our hearts beat mighty with body’s delight,
And the colors danced on the walls all night.

By Anonymous*

“Go on, summer woman.”
You sing
bitter lies,
ask her for
sweet, sordid music,
like honey or peaches
on her tongue.
In drooling language
she cries out a chant.
Men ask for love
as enormous as the sky.
Never easy, some may show
you life like wind and water,
but some are like rock,
mean as diamonds.
Shake our iron chains,
blow storm but weakly.

I trudge sadly,
avoiding essential trueness,
yet spring rain must flood.
A thousand mad urges
always crush my goddess
as she fluffs elaborate
apparatus,

whispers raw vision behind death,
soars beneath the moment.
Together blood, like sleep,
a rusty beauty,
incubates dreams.
Delicate, language, luscious, cool,
after drunk with need—
I love bare lust,
smooth and frantic.
You here,
a sweaty symphony.
Lick skin only after swimming.

So
eat, scream, shine,
ugly one,
picture a lazy beat
under heavy spray.

she's the humidity on my summer day,
the mosquito bite on the back of my leg;
that nagging cough that just won't quit,
weeks after the cold itself is gone.
she's the pimple on my chin and the
horizontal scratch on my glasses.
she buzzes in the background of my mind,
some days far louder than others.
i try to rationalize and reason with her,
but even the strongest will and the most
determined of intention is no match for
a steel-reinforced concrete wall.
sometimes she chokes my throat and
speaks for me, making me a fool.
other times, she just whispers in my
ear and poisons my whirling thoughts.
some day, i will muster the courage to
drown her out, once and for all.
but until then, if there's a hitch in my smile,
or a sigh amidst the peals of laughter,
or even just a downward gaze,
know that it is not me, it is her.
i hate her because i love her.
she is me, and i am her.

the night air is still,
so warm for the
end of winter;
the stars shine
with fiery hearts
far, far above me.

i feel waves of quiet
serenity run through
my body and mind,
and i shut my eyes.
the world is hazy.

i am here, inside.
the heaviness
of life shuts up
because i force it
to leave me alone.

but through my beautiful
silence crackles a noise--
a sound that cannot be,
a sound that should not.

my eyelids tear open
and at first, nothing;
but then, an anomaly.
dark, then darker dark.
impossible, i think.

i blink, but there it stays,
existing to spite me.
my mind must be
tired, worn; i look away.

my vision is unfocused
and out of control.
houses and trees
bleed together,
and spots dance in
my eyeballs.

when i look back,
i stare at this
impossibility,
and it stares
right back.

my heart pounds on
my ribcage like a
terrified toddler
screaming for
mommy.

and then,
the pressure lifts.
it is gone.

it is a sultry dance we share;
your feet lead, mine follow.
your smile is charming as
always, but i cannot perceive
the words on the tip of
your tongue, nor will you
put them to flight.
you are perpetually at an
arm's length; our fingertips
seem to touch sometimes,
but you never let me close
enough for an embrace.
so i will wait in the wings,
and perhaps some day
i will be more than your
consolation prize.

For me, paradise is the sight of a soft
sunset, when the sky just above the tree
line is blushed with pink and swept with
clouds so fine and wispy I think that
they must have been painted by a hand
the size of Asia or a small galaxy.

It is the end of a day so stiflingly hot
and humid that my skin still steams
after hours reclining in artificially
cooled air, and when I venture to the
red chairs on the front porch, their
metal no longer sizzles, but, like me,
relishes in the tickle of a gentle breeze.

It is the conniving but stalwart beagle
who lies on the fourth step, squishing
his face against the end of the banister
so that the skin of his black lips are pulled
into an easy, familiar grin, his speckled
tail thumping against the cerulean carpet.

It is the joyous surprise of catching a
beloved and long-forgotten tune on the
fickle radio—humming the haunting
melodies and crooning the words
imprinted upon my soul elicits a face-
splitting smile, and a steady swelling of
bliss and glee deep within my chest cavity.

It is the comfort of my childhood home,
every inch so recognized I could navigate
its rooms in pitch black, locate a fork or
a heavy blanket with ease. It is the serene
beckoning of my bed after an arduous
day, its sheets always warm in the winter
and cool in the summer. It is the
imbibing of my favorite beer, expertly
cooled, while sharing company with my
favorite people. It is a firm and caring
embrace, the selfless and boundless
love of parents, the first lick of an ice
cream cone, the middle drags of a
cigarette, and the smell of the pavement
as summer rains begin to fall. It is

finding contentment, oozing self-confidence
growing acceptance of the things one cannot
control, the letting go of grudges, the start of
a new friendship and the simplicity of an old
one. It is the stubborn pride that lingers
after one has created something new and
beautiful, and the satisfaction drawn from
finding something thought to be irrevocably
lost.

Paradise is
subjective,
imperfect,
straightforward.
I only wish I
had recognized
this sooner.

was the sort of kid who would have enjoyed dissection
in high school, savoring in the permission to cut
a once-living creature open and scrutinizing the
parts that made it function,

would draw swastikas on furniture and his toys and his
body not because he was an Anti-Semite but
because he thought that maybe it could start
a conversation or two,

mixed different sorts of alcohol in his bedroom and claimed
to have brewed them himself because he
thought he could impress the friends whose
palates discerned the lie,

wore heavy black clothing even in the drought of August
or red-colored contacts and a black eye
eye patch because he thought this made
him intimidating,

carried an immense duffel bag packed so tightly with
dull-edged katanas and worn flasks
and umpteen lighters and extra shoes
it could not be fastened,

always smoked two cigarettes in succession as if
to say to everyone: smoking is
cool and now I am twice as cool
as the rest of you,

was so captivated by explosions that he poured
drain cleaner into bottles filled with *****
of tin foil and claimed to be creating a
recipe for ******,

did not believe in moderation and always ate until
his gut distended or drank until his pallid
skin greened or smoked until the bag was
empty and the room a thick haze,

never cared that his name was simply Rob and his
ever-changing group of friends insisted
upon adding the ‘Crazy’ since he had been young,
never hesitated to share his time or money
or material possessions with every person he knew,
never made apologies for his outlandish and
off-putting behavior because he was comfortable as
himself and was committed to enjoying
every moment of every day with unabashed gusto.