A body
three times
renewed

Below, blades are not
safe from snooping golden glares.
And at night, the moon.

The difference between
those old mustard stains
and Jackson *******.

Is it wrong to miss you?

What if we both run
parrallel lines along
snowy walks--
legs stepping across
bleached streets like
soldiers in unison,
at the same time,
together;
but still,
still parallel.
I learned in elementary school
that we can never ever
touch.

If we are all just for our own sake,
what conclusion could we ever come to?
What are we then,
how--what makes us so great
that even our mere existance is
the explanation of our presence;
each some sort of unique gift to the universe?
I, you, we are each a bundle of cells,
hormones, arguably a soul,
but definitely atoms in space--
space, which is both infinitely large
& infinitely small.

Instead of right or wrong,
we are diminished to foolish little snowflakes,
all dumbly in our own way, "human."
"Art for art's sake," we are all
paintings on the mantle:
abstract & upside-down,
but nobody can tell the difference.

Honesty is
doing a perfect job
on a blind woman's
hairstyle.

Flowers on the wreath
of the funeral home door;
beautiful to none

If I never remember you,
how many times did we touch?

If there are no pictures,
where did we go together?

The past is the dust on
the dashboard of your car,
one speck for each moment
that is forgotten--
Did we ever happen?

Maybe G-d
is in
the air?
I just keep
breathing

Meaning is entirely
subjective in a
world where
some
starve &
others *******
& someone,
somewhere,
breaks an iPhone.

How do I find unanimity
in the midst of spectrums,
ranges, & degrees in which
one
falls?

Who is like me?
Who is like you?

God.

God is the shapes
on my ceiling.
He is the sliver of light
filtered through my window.

God is the thirty-inch space
between roof & fallen branch.
He is the kiss of dew drops
& the breeze on my neck.

God is the flame
of discipline.
He is the declaration
of saddened exile.

God is goosebumps
that proclaim "I hear you!"
He is the rise &
the fall of empires.

God is the sky
which engulfs all
in loving despair.

Is it you--
are you the rain
that my children
dance in?
Are you the
harvester of long
grains and seeds
that the lone bird
feeds on?

To know you
is to know for an
eternity.
It is you,
the hand of death,
the whisperer of
rustling motions,
who knows of both
the grandest scope
and of who I am
in my smallest ways.

The world will not stop
spinning for me,
not ever.
The birds will not be
mute for me,
not a chance.

The only thing that will
stop for me
is a heartbeat--
for I am too
small of an amazement
for the traffic,
the rain.

Though, I do not
expect the world to
cease in the moment of
my passing,
my mysterious disappearance.
(an empty body,
an empty shell).

Being a part of this
world means being
disposable.

Knowing you means that
I wish I could love you more,
perhaps differently.

Knowing you means that
I will finally know loss.

I will not cease to pause for you.

Perhaps it is the phenomenon
of being constantly,
perfectly out of reach that
keeps me going in the mornings
when there is no glow,
& the comfort of living within
my alotted skin has vanished.

Perhaps it is the season,
these months of leaves
cascading,
that guides me,
gently,
down.

there are these days
where I spin like the Earth--
in a scientific destiny,
cosmic mystery--
whirling with some
astronomical cause that is
unbeknownst to me

post mirrors
everywhere so you
can be sure to see me out in


the open


in the closed   , at any angle
I am observed
      close in your eyes

     you see
I am   e       x   p     o  s    e  d
I have  no
secrets    my doors are

open &    what's to see but
complete & total emptiness?


sleep I'm falling it's
funny how we
fall into the mindless;
sleep ,    love .
we walk through doors    we run
on tracks ,    but we
     f
     a
     L
     l
        into the overwhelming pleasures
             of


vulnerability

Three nights in a row, you came to me,
And it still was only Wednesday.
I tried to help you each time--
I sang songs of my heart,
But you demanded
An orchestra.
So I failed,
Of course.
"Thanks."

I lay face down on the sheets
                           on the pillow
                    t   ng
                      a    led in blankets

breathing in every last bit of euphoria
   injecting it into my bloodstream
watching the insides of my eyelids
             turn
ORANGE
                                                     ­                                          PINK
                                                BLUE

s     ­        l
  w      r      i      g           around
       i            n
                                           until I can once again
feel the heat of your fireplace
  again in my heart
                                                     between my thighs
because
               the scent of you in my bed
is the scent of granted wishes
                     of guilty seduction,
                 reasons why we never leave the porch.

It is the call into the wild

         that sends the beaten, driven out

dreams tip-toeing out from behind

        the trees, the dark bars of reality

The wind
                                                       at my door
                                                                                                              RATTLES me

shakes me
                                                       free of my
                                                                                                               pointed finger

Blameless, I
                                                       turn inwards,
                                                                                                               concave,

I search
                                                       for the love
                                                                                                                in me

& return
                                                       with a bunch
                                                                                                                of old bones,

skeletons of
                                                        myself that
                                                                                                                 I have wasted

away on
                                                         pleasing other
                                                                                                                   people's needs

so that
                                                         they could use me
                                                                                                                   as a net

when they
                                                         fall, & tell me
                                                                                                                   that I pushed

them, that
                                                         it's all my
                                                                                                                   fault.

I wake up, it's noon,
I bounce around my mind to find
that it'd be better if you were here,
but I'm not alone anyway.
Endless options sing me songs
as I dance around an empty house,
seemingly infinite.
I hear Emily Dickinson's call of irony
"Dwell in Possibility"
from a girl who never left her home
Perhaps, I, now, should do it too--
dwell, but never pick a road,
as Robert Frost did.
Maybe I will stay idle
& watch my choices melt away
as I let time run free,
crawl into bed & watch the
sun slide across the blue
& call today "No Paths Were Traveled"

There is a ****,
a toxic bit of cancer,
in the garden of my soul

It wraps around
my dreams--
a python of the greenery

Raspy hisses that
the real world doesn't
work that way,

You have to hide your heart
your love, your all
you don't want that pain, do you?

No, I don't, I don't want
that at all, I say,
so I put down my *****

& I am Eve,
banished from the garden
but I do not feel a thing.

float to me

lean on me

I will catch you

weak as the legs

I use to stand

may be,

lay it all on

me,

& I will

requite your

trust with all

the love I have

ever had to

give, just call

I know

you need a

friend, & here

I am;

a stranger