Between the trees there lay a path
messy and strewn, overgrowth hid the tracks
it went deep into the forrest, twisting and spontaneous
I told the lady on the bus, but spoke mostly to her back

Midday moved to night moved to daybreak
I hear a voice drift from somewhere near
"You are free to own nothing"
it echoed. far off a clock was punched. I walked on, leaving behind a distant jeer

If you stand on your head, will the questions become answers?
If you oppress the oppressor, will you then control fate?
When faced with flashing truths, will you stare into light?
I don't need ******* stories, I make my own bait

What do I know? Water boils on the stove and rain cakes mud to the edge of my new boots.
All I can say is sometimes I get lucky and follow trails I've never seen wearing a hat I found the other day with a note saying, "Take me if you need it."

Take a moment to consider
the exact person
you think you are
at this very moment
                                                Are you able to sum it up in a sentence
                                                or does it continue down the page
                                                building a story
                                                you couldn't confidently claim
                                                or really recognize

Are you left with the feeling of a missing phrase
caught, perhaps, in a familiar yet unapproachable silence
pondering the forgotten areas of your past, forced to realize where you've been
and
where you've yet to go
                                                There is a shift, of course
                                                in your posture as you re-read the words
                                                regretting the ink, the inability to erase
                                                nodding with your past self
                                                there was no other way to learn
If there is anything left to fear
it is doing yourself the disservice
of allowing a broken opinion to define
what it means
to be the exact person
you think you are
in any moment
                                                I observed an answer
                                                in a place willingly abandoned long ago
                                                that the reality of what matters
                                                of. what. matters.
                                                is so extraordinarily simple and clear
                                                once we let go
                                                of a script
                                             written by anonymous, rehearsed by everyone
                                                the answer is purely
                                                to live unapologetically
Yet when said aloud
we cringe, clutching our script
always secretly relieved
that the burden of defining ourselves
is on someone else's shoulders
                                 There is joy in the unshackled, undefined road ahead
                                 When you read my story you will know
                                 that not only is it mine
                                 it is a promise that we are more
                                 more than anyone else
                                 could possibly imagine

I look out
hoping to be calmed
by an evening in transition
forcibly removed from the experience
stuck behind the shingles of a barrier that compels me to
return indoors
unfulfilled and indifferent

In my chair I am denied
the presence of movement, the echo of life beyond my own
it sits until replaced
by boredom or misuse

I fear it's not the only product
removed and unfazed
putting weeks on the shelves
passing poison for purity, choosing machines not maturity, selling fact from obscurity
striving to straighten the imperfect wild
pointing fingers, avoiding blame

I know how it feels to walk a path
forged by pines and ranting rain
there -- as I move forward
gone -- as I turn back

I look out
hoping to still want to see past
the view the deceives me
the view I've been told repeatedly
is what life's all about

It was soft at first
the sound of cotton, pulled
across cedar floor. Sacred.
Fragile words we whisper
mostly so we no longer have the
burden of sheltering them ourselves.
It was, the petals of parsley--
just before the setting of summer
dips below the horizon. A breeze
will send them away.
For the time being.


It grew louder.
I knew not how long it had been increasing.
No longer careful, no longer respectful
of the night. It ached. In suspense it gazed--
through the screens in our speech
through the bend of our knuckles
through the curve of our sight
It ached.
I knew not how long it had been increasing.
Only that I had been there all the while


Over time
the paint on the walls remained
gently the clock was reminded of the hour
drops sizzled and slipped through
hairlines in humidity
the bed frame celebrated 2 decades
Not once did the door open in surprise
Over time, it was like it didn't exist at all.


At last
the age of guessing was at a close
cool tiles against the jaw. low. heavy in
the steamed aftermath of dawn. Forgiving.
The release of tape from the roll--keeping it all together
A hiss from the nose, crunched by the swift turn on the heels. Endless.
Reckless. Reverberating around the space of your lawn, bending
the blades, breaking the stems of weeds.
At last.
It had nothing to do with listening close enough
and everything to do with experiencing it.

its not all bad
sometimes I'm lost in the fog
trapped in the endless stream of blur
the hope seeps out with the reason

still darling I seek the edges
where clarity leaks into view
bringing with it the possibility of
real freedom and simplicity

I know the world beyond
full of prayer, relentless confession
I catch myself wishing to stay undefined
I catch myself wishing

Have you ever set foot across
lines set for the point in life when it all
comes together. I wave over my shoulder
there 's always something left behind

shifts in the wind keep
the trails an impulse, thump thump
we are leftover wisps
sipping on the dream that one day
we won't have to float away to fly

it isn't as soft as you would imagine
the pull of fabric, the simple hums
yet it does separate me from
the fantasy

the fantasy is always deep
repeatedly warm, protective against the open room
it keeps me together, even when
you don't

you don't always see
when I hide in the pillows, I promise to stay
I regularly wonder, would you do
the same

the same rocks pour from your mouth
a bitter shot of memory and hard places
I swear once I caught a glimpse of
the better you

the better you exists in my hands
when I run them through your hair
nuzzle down.down.down.downright hard to get
up again

up again at the crack of dawn
I know you work hard for your bills
just remember the cup
won't lie

won't lie?
I wouldn't say that, have you ever...
strangely I trust you, even when it seems
I shouldn't

I shouldn't doubt your hand in mine
yet it's much too disappointing
when I reach for some assurance and you
fall short

fall short of the finish line and
nothing really happens, you just go home
of course you gave it your
best shot

best shot, neat knot, limp plot
barely caught, never taught, simply thought
surely ought, fully wrought, sadly got
dizzy ***

dizzy *** I will one day know
how to stand up to you and
what it is and what
it isn't

it isn't as soft as you would imagine
the pull of fabric, the simple hums
yet it does separate me from
the fantasy