It's not fair that you only have to spend the morning without me
for I'm trapped in the night
darkness deafening me as I tell myself over and over that this is real
that midnight is only an hour
that I'll be home soon
and I never feel like I'm where I'm supposed to be
transporting myself place to place
continent hopping like a heart murmur
my soul is five hours behind
and when you sleep my whole being longs for your voice
glasses half empty stacked beside me
I remember a time when my hair danced at my hips
when the moon would be full and heat lightning blinded me
constantly praying to a god I didn't believe in that I could fall asleep
but dreams didn't come
and that summer lasted but eight days
when I can feel your heartbeat you are fire
but now that I'm so far away your voice is tired
your laugh is like a wind chime on a day when the air doesn't speak
milk moons have a habit of forcing me to reread your words
making me realize I now posess curses I never thought I'd have to endure
like how when I touch you I am not the girl my father raised
like how when you push me into the wall I hope your mother doesn't weep

We all have promises we wish we never made
I wish I didn't tie myself to you with silk
knotting each of my heartstrings around your fingers
I'm like your puppet
and it's wrenching because I had always been so brimmed with pride
conceived by my parents notion that I'd be doomed to wander alone
or blessed
if you choose to look at my freedom like it's that of a gift
but I don't want it anymore
I refuse to chain myself to my past
my frosted veins melting in your palms
I am not who I thought I was
I am not the lady my matriarch once bore that hot morning
a head full of curls and irises that told two different tales

I'm so lucky that the trees bend north tonight
I contribute secrets as clouds to the noir
unkept stands of chestnut trying to escape
but I don't blame them
and ink is all around me as I further my vices
counting down to paradise as I move a little too quickly from my bed
the other part of me wonders if I go visit him at this time
and I grin at that notion she thinks that's what I want from this hour
there are moments I forget to miss you
guild soaked as I remember love
I wouldn't call this bliss
it doesn't even scrape at happiness
it's emptiness
but not the way I've experienced before
I don't have words for this new feeling
not yet at least
I'll let anything in as an attempt to starve out this self doubt
but no whisper is as warm as your breath
because with you you don't even need to comfort me with diction
instead I swallow your glances like honey
I hope you know this mindset will never evolve
and if it does it is only to grow stronger

Some hearts change with the seasons
mine used to change at every chime of a clock
I'm stagnant now
laying calmly in the eye of the storm
the light hitting my skin the only thing changing each hour

Soon this will be over
No longer damning every firefly and its nerve to glow without purpose
Soon I'll be at your mercy again
Purple thighed and alive
Because right now without you I've never felt so alone
Eyelids like blankets
Terrified of what dreams could await my unconscious soul
But in the deepest hollows of my chest I hear your voice calming me
Saying what you always say when you hear my heart rate jump
"Let me sing you that song about the stars I know you love"

good morning, my angel
my living lullaby
i glide across the fairest skin, you are the fairest one
of all. Good morning, my mother
my broken candle
you gave me the wax that has melted on many tablecloths
i feel I have lost you now, as I had lost you then.
Good morning, my first love
my little bridge
your mittens were warm when I needed heat
when I was so cold the tears froze onto my cheeks.
you ran me a bath a being
of divinity
we held each other in your father’s tub and laughed
at the bubbling abundance, burgeoning in overflow.
I wake to the puddle of your memory
That has grown since we last met, since I have wept
For the love I have not kept in place. Good
morning hindered lover, who worships me in forbidden light
a thousand songs have yet transpired born
from a single thought of you.
Inhibited inspiration,
camouflage constellation, I kiss you now
though I will always be
Years away from where you lie.
Good morning dear father, a forester
Braver than the lone wolf and his
solitary howl. The lesson of the arthritic toe shows you
True appreciation for the pain of existence.
You are the most loyal flame, my gratitude is overwhelming
Each time I embrace the past and the mistakes, unconscious
From the broken record
And its echo off the wall.
Good mourning to the loss of a lover, an ephemeral flame.
Good mourning to the death of a friendship, to the longing for a ****.
Good mourning to the future in its casket,
That awaits a new life for me
In song.

Edison’s last breath is in a jar in Michigan
Caught by his son as he died.
Where will my last breath have been by the time it travels through me?
Will it have been spit it the gutter of Mumbai?
Coughed by a panting Senator?
Was it a small sigh at a child’s amazement of a world just opening in his eye?
Will it have travel to space and back?
Was it farted into an airplane seat
Or laughed with a bit of spittle at some barmaids’ misfortune?
This air, this stuff, that expands and contracts us,
the universe even
doesn’t get the credit the heart does.
This invisible life
a language that travels well untranslated
by the heart or mind.
I know you by our breathes
shared exhalations, bits of us.
Air opens us- all of us- to living
from the Yogi to the thief.
Edison who breathed caught light into a jar
a thing unseen until then
now shines breath back at me from this screen
from all screens.
A chain–un broken
passed between us
exhaled into forever’s jar – our breathes

Some ones party balloon
Escaped from a small hand
Clings to a branch
outside
my bedroom
Window
It leaving its party too soon
a shimmering mylar
rodent string tail
caught-
a runaway
panting
in a trap.
I want to
cut it down
and pick up the party
before all life
drains out -
slowly.
I can’t reach
though
like so many
plastic grocery bags
drifting waste
bobbing
above my grasp
artifacts of past
communions
floating by.
The shine of ‘Happy’
collapses time
Upside down
string flaccid
Winter
its only breath-
a shuddering in cold bursts
of grey.
Slowly
Spring green
molds over it
decay
I forget
As it eases into waves of softer air.
buds form
And robins pull worms
In its shade’s
exhausted judgement.
Summer breezes
bounce it’s flaked shine briefly
between
The flickering
Of leaves
“I’m still here”
it winks
Until
the Fall
sheds its cover
leaves float
down in spirals
revealing
shimmer- gone- grey
and dull.
life and air
No longer animate.
Spreading apart into
beautiful
diminishing
frail
shards
Nature takes its turn
small hands fashion
it into a squirrels nest
the moveable Birthday Party – long over.
It’s empty string dangles nothing to lift it.
A boy still searching the sky
to grab
for its return,
Sorry
but,
The squirrels
seem to be
Happy

At my father’s grave
I stand on the berm
over his chest
his holes filled with dirt and time
a clear vantage point
for
peering into my holes.
The earth rising-constantly
strata filling
with generations
of fathers and sons.
Soldiers, plumbers, thieves
Estranged, beloved
Sharing
the same moon light on cool etched stone
night after night.
Epitaphs
at my head board:
Loving father,
provider
Dedicated son.
A breeze carries
a warmth
from that lower ground,
it’s a quiet wind,
so I can
sleep –
blanket half shorn
One leg in
one leg out.
The ground rises to meet me
daily
As I fall preparing
a spot
for my son to stand
compacting the dirt
in my holes

I can leave a window open tonight
a breeze across the soft fuzz of my cheek.
I never sleep in this position
but on my back
I hear the lullaby:
street noises
a passing car
a train without people
going - somewhere.
A lone dog walker,
a whistler in the dark
a laugh - then gone.
will sleep stop this silent joy in my head?
then let me be.
eyes softly
resting in
the Bogart greys .
a thin cover of
the moon on my body,
my feet
slowly opening
out.
when so few are awake
there seems to be
more world for me to live in
coming through my window

Be not afraid of who you are
told to you in your sleep
these myths that keep you
awake
your organs narrative:
the barista with the Rams head
the animal of your ***
the wings
released unafraid
your art.
the unkempt stories of your day
made only bizarre and disjointed
by your fears
and a life that doesn’t
allow you to fly.
at the pillow ascend
into that sweet unconscious story
from the crime of fish
who gave up the swim
and
the jealousy of birds.
pluck from
your day the weak unfinished
prayers.
with closed eyes
they creep out
from the muck of the
apron
desk
hammer
god
anger
hurt,
the animals
of self,
carrying their stories
to the gray artist.
under your burning eyes
closed
the life
you were meant for
in the stillness
of your night
breathe now the book open
the unwritten
living stories of our time
carried in your organs
why: the fish crawled
the Hawk sought
the bone supports
the blood feeds.
who am I?
I ask
in waking hours.
At night
no gravity’s skin,
the organs
stories
released
become
the fish
stepping into the path
every night
out of
the death muck
of a day
into
a dream
of forever