Lines of coal take form, again and again, on this coldbound evening
as blackened fingers and wear reveal prints typically unseen.
Beautiful and unique and hurricane lightning tattooed yellowed paper.
It was untouched, like the charcoal, for ages as it sat in the corner
underneath the easel gathering dust and cobwebs.
It seems that the spiders have had a plentiful harvest this autumn,
what a shame to rid them of their feast this month.
It'll be winter soon and they're going to need it.
What creation is permissible by destruction? Any?
None?

Can I make up for it, I promise:
I'll draw them a web and weave you into it.
You and I and They: we'll all feast.
We on Art and they on flesh.
They'll never miss those material pleasures ever again.
They'll never need to build or wait or **** or eat.
We'll never need to either, not after this,
this momentous occasion of focus and dedication
when my arms and lamplit desk burn from satisfaction
and our faces grimace at the completion
of something so wonderful, on paper.

when i was younger,
my mother called me "grace".
she called me grace,
because that was exactly the thing that i lacked.
thinking about it now,
it occurs to me..
that that is a very sad thing:
to be named after something you lack.
if someone wanted to call me
a name
based on something
i can't do,
or don't have,
or am not,
maybe they would call me..
clear. for i am never quite clear on what i want.
maybe they would call me..
pure. for i have sinned a thousand times.
maybe they would call me..
shame. for i have no shame about the life i have chosen.
maybe they would call me..
beautiful. for many things about me are not quite beautiful.
maybe they would call me..
honesty. for i'm supremely good at spouting lies.
maybe they would call me..
found. for i have never, ever, been so lost.

lonely lonely,
you leave me so,
inside out watching
the stars burn out
in an emptying
of cosmic sorrow..

and tomorrow I know
the sun will smile at me
your kisses will taste
like honey and
the birds will romance me
with slaughtered butterflies
and sweet lamentation.

But today,
I've been tuning radio static
to white noise and
flashes of Chopin,
trying to recreate a feeling
from shadows and memory.

don't leave me lonely,
dear, make love to
me in the hypnagogic
stare of the rising sun.
play me soft as buttercups
and foxgloves;
piannissimo,
gentle as death's
watchful eye.

from the moment of the first breath,
stringing events, mind creates time,
tangled with space, it spins a new thread,
history of a being, moves forward,
down the line, events come to an end,
the mind dissolves, body feeds the elements,
the indestructible core, white dove,
transcends to the branch of the tree of light,
*the thread dissolves, in a wistful note,
the symphony continues in higher octaves.

you drank
from my glass of desire
and left it half full,
in my dreams

magnetic,
there is an unexplainable pull
slowly
drawing us closer,
i wish

moments
echo in my mind,
telling me what could
be
telling me what i
want

snapshots
of us,
together

we do it all
go everywhere
tell
everything

my body aches,
every muscle tense,
as i try,
*i try so hard,
to give you a face

i see the writings in the bathroom stalls,
carved into dying trees
and wept into sepia letters

they give me hope
that
someday
you will be far from
faceless