I eye
these dreams that dance
like puppets on a broken string

In my head
a purple morning mist descends
Like fingers unfurling, over the valley
the valley that raised me, the rolling hills

a dream to look out my bedroom window
as a child in a swirl of ivory and pink pillows
I dare to recall these simple pleasures

to string those images with the puppets I meet
in my new city, grid city
under ground bars, graffiti, speaking only on
liquid courage, drunk on the scent he seeps

some feathered beings
in my mind fornicate
too dark, too much ink on his arms
and not enough on the page

I can see where the valley lives
within his body
hear the purple morning mist in his voice
riding one long exhalation of breath

this thick beating of my heart
some clawed animal is snarling
in my chest, prowling back, forth  

he’s asking to see my childhood bedroom
the swirl of ivory and pink
so far has only had
six visitors, and none
ever stayed too long

his gaze lingers, his eyes, prismatic
all I need to do
is open the door just a sliver
just enough for him
to fill the room with light,

strangulation, the council in my mind heaves for breath
for the hours we are together
I am brought back, pressed here, and ****** forward

so
so, I marvel at my tenderness, at the sweetness of his lies  
when a him becomes a hymn
how long can you sing the tune
before your throat runs dry

moon wash blue tint soft shadows writhe
river sway trees bend wind bellow shiver sigh

and come the burst of day
what feels like an open wound
feels like a new patch of skin
feels like a bruise that is fading, but still pulsating with a persistent
kind of loneliness

my body is a zoo for all of the animals
I have collected over the years
my breath a haven for orphan
thoughts, caught in the wisp

of his half hearted grip.

It was only a moment of passion. It was only the passing of time. There was only a glint and a sigh. There was the fall and then the release. There was nothing in between. It was just the idea of a dream. It is about the awareness of oneself in connection to another. It was just support from another breath. It was like magic. It was like a storm. It was only a thrill to be someone’s own. Another person. Another you. Another day in the shadow of truth. Another rhyme. Another lie. Another well gone stone cold dry. You run in the present. You think of the past. You look to the future. Nose against glass. I find myself spilling my guts to the nearest person who is willing to hear. I only blinked and found myself in the crux of another year. I caress my demons. I ****** my fears. (Before you sit, think that those who have your back could also plunge a knife into it.)

I awake to find the sun seeping into my living room underneath the linen curtains. It was only a new day. It was only the refuge of the morning. It was only the smoky curl of jasmine tea up your nostrils. It was only a giant elephant in the room. But you sip and sigh. You think of life and how it is only a matter of time

I can’t promise you anything,
I can’t promise that I won’t wake up and want to move away from you,
I can not tell the future, I am here, with you,
now, in the moment, in our bed.
Warming my cold feet against your warm skin,
I run my fingers down the bridge of your nose.
The room is bathed in light, we are bathed in light,
this is what counts, knowing
that this moment is pure.

That earth spirit

black, dark, flame flickering at the end of the tunnel
i appreciate our ancestors who took care of the soles of their feet

that feet rooted to the earth

that spirit rooted within the body underneath the skin

the soul is not separate from the body
butoh cries out in the darkness for a dance

there is a silent scream

then a piercing sound, you see a Woman's body as she convulses on the ground

you notice the beautiful tendons and muscles in the back and thighs of this one male dancer

Ohno's hands are veiny and paper thin and utterly divine the way it ripples

butoh spirit to the ground and I find my journey for that way of life
starts with taking care of the soles of my feet

Duende and that color black
one step and you won't come back

Where is my home?

I do not think home is a house,
Home is anywhere I feel most at peace

I like listening to the blues

(bear this in mind,
       a true friend is hard to find
don’t mind
       people
grinning in your face)

Son house singing by himself
Clapping without rhythm
Just him and his voice and his hands and his heart

Whatever happened to that girl last year?

Oh, we grew apart

(I don’t understand
people who throw away “I love you"
or even worse;
“love you”
as if they could not bear
to attach themselves to the claim)

Asked to choose: heavy or light?

I hold a weight in my hand,
but then I grow muscle

(I am strong enough to hold the world on my shoulders)

O mio amico
let me know

All these last four days of March I walked past the lighted church shivering in the unrelenting cold the wind bit my cheeks all up and down 9th avenue these last four days of Easter week
there is a knot at the center of me that holds all of the strings in my body
and then there is this rising in me that propels me through eighty blocks until 5 in the morning
until the sun ray glistens a golden sheen on the mirrored side walls of mighty towers in the city of those who never sleep
this morning in a morning voice I hurl my name into the silence
I will have this city in all of its honks chatter and chirps
All these last four days of March I tightened the knot but loosened the string all these last mornings in a morning voice in March I rose with my heart in my throat a line on my lips and a tingling in my feet

Yes, there is something
so satisfying
about carrying a Degas print
on the surface of my purse
around New York City

Toting the tote
clutching it to my side
a prize
somewhere from across the street
it catches the eye of a stranger
who has a special affinity
for impressionist painters
ballet dancers in pastel colors

And for a moment
we meet
and for a moment
he envies the purse
so close to me

we dance a special dance
our eyes dance
to and fro
back and forth
to meet or not to meet
and then he answered the question

running across the street and down the stairs
towards a subway train
his skinny frame
swallowed up by the stairs

This one
this poem
this poem on a Friday evening
wasn't much about anything at all
but it is still worth noting