Sanity and the cold wind brush against his skin
As gusts of common sense harshly dry out his eyes.
His feet, firmly placed on the edge of the cliff, flirt with frost bite.
Howling into the wilderness, his echo pauses
Before reeling back to taunt him and slap him across the face.
The animals are silent to his tortured wails,
To his lonely laments about being misunderstood.
They only hear the high octave of his echo,
And run for cover amidst the canopy of weary redwoods.
He pours his heart out on that ledge,
Unleashing his insecurities and regrets to the indifferent world.
As his echos come back and caress his red, restless face
His surroundings begin to dance and swirl together,
Creating a new kind of understanding,
A new form of exceptence,
Of peace.
His howl sounds out into nothingness,
Booming its vibrating echo between the trees and birds and streams.

Bring forth your
whole self.
I do not mean
pronounce your name,
show your form,
or announce the game you play,
but the being that is
without death;
the blank page that was before
the writings of mother and father
graced its white
humility.

Show me this.

It may seem a difficult task,
yet it is done without being asked,
no trifle nor trouble,
and once completed,
seems to have been done before
you even set about
to begin.

For the self is selfless
and gives its isness freely,
thus leaves no mark,
holds no home,
sits not stark,
does not roam,
from where/when/why/how it already is.

abound with fruits
are flowers;
are seeds.
black and warm,
with no need
for audio/visual,
hands-on learning techniques.

a fire is simply
burning,
yet is not itself when so.

Show me this.

the music.. the music
oh dear father the sonnet that you've made.
how little this sound from my memory fades.
the music of footsteps walking rapidly to the door,
and the sound of a weeping mother's heart, falling fast to the floor.
the music of your engine, as it purred violently to life,
the music of a little girl watching, and hearing much too precise.
after the music devolved and the little girl was tucked to bed,
the sonnet lived on much quietly, in the chambers of her head.

I opened my eyes and saw fireworks
how silly, I thought

those are street lights
I could’ve sworn they were fireworks

ripples of rhapsody saturating through my skin

*******
did you know, you’re my favourite person to kiss?

the sweet-gentle ones and the devoted-amore ones
the quick-teasing ones and the I’ve-gotta-take-a-breath-now ones
the infallible tongue and the soft grazing of lips
your hands lowering all the way down to my hips

we are a tidal wave merging in and out of the ocean

unity

harmony

zeal

I don’t care if we’re in a car, it’s nirvana all the same
heaven and azure

all the particles of my body click into place and everything
fits together
like a bowl of summer fruit

I opened my eyes and remembered
where we were

I opened my eyes and remembered
we existed

lovely, these pages I sew
for sadness I know not to tamper with like a joke -
a sick joke that people find amusing.
I do not find that kind of joke, or you to be amusing.

I clasp my hands tightly together, interlocking knuckles
and sit very still while the company is antsy to inspect
me for any weakness.
(I am always assuming everyone is out to judge me so rashly)
I am straining my back and the very moment I slouch,
I will fall into the pit of self-irritability,
yelling at myself because my bones persist on frangibility.
God! am I ever good enough?!
(I am always judging myself so rashly)

I want to buy myself a cottage near a swamp, hoarding
the repugnant slime near my fireplace cozied up reading a book.
you may trespass; I am willing to share this (hell) with you
if you wish to get so close to me.

I do though, (at my best) suffice
lingering around buying myself something nice (you could put it)
when I'm aggravated, I tend not to listen
not even to my own advice.

Vera once told me Mickey Mouse used to be a bisexual
That she can’t have kids
That I should never get old
But if I do
Don’t get diabetes because
Sugar free chocolate doesn’t taste nice

Her hair has that blue hue
Almost purple
It brings out her eyes

Her voice
When it is not overpowered by her walker
Is smooth and sure
Like sandpaper on velvet
She talks like she is already a ghost

I had a dog when I was younger
And he got sick one day
Really he got old
Something about his liver
And he started to bleed out from the inside
I asked the vet if he was in pain
He said no
Basically he got really tired
So he thought it was time to take a nap
And he went to his place
And never woke up
That’s a nice way to die

She smiles at me
I give her change
For the diapers
And the sugar free chocolate
And the 16 ounce bottle of orange juice

I touch her hand
It feels like that one time
Paper tried to be human
And begged you to play along

I played along

I don’t want her to die
But she’s 93
She’s cool with that

She tells good stories
And I know I won’t see her one day
I’m cool with that