A strange pattern for
writing has come
to me lately.
The skeletons of
poems form when I
lie down for a nap.
Sleep always calls,
and bones want to
dance and grow skin.
Lilacs bloom, and I feel
the inner thigh of
eternity, soft and wet.

I can't get any rest.
I have to jot down the
notes or they turn
to ashes and blow away,
or, they are buried deep in
mud and slumber,
impossible to dig up.

I sleep with a notebook and
pen, as I drift off,
I whisper to the tortured
bones,
don't cry and try not to worry.
I'll bring you to life.

(what lives in me before I understand)

It begins in my body
long before my mind arrives.
A surge, a flicker,
a trembling at the root of me
that says:
we are already feeling.

There is no stillness
that does not ripple.
No calm
that doesn’t carry the hum beneath it -
not peace,
but a kind of readiness.
Like lightning waiting just behind the skin.

I used to try to stop it.
To breathe it away.
To silence it
before it unraveled me in front of someone else.

But it only grew sharper in the hiding.
It only screamed louder
the more I tried to be soft.

Now,
I listen.

Not because I’m unafraid,
but because I’m done pretending
this isn’t me.

This intensity -
it isn’t a problem.
It’s a language.
One I’ve been speaking since before I had words.
Maybe even longer.
Maybe it was handed down,
a birthright carved from all the grief
my blood couldn’t name.

It leaves when it wants to.
Returns just as quickly.
There is no asking it to stay gone.
Only learning
not to run
when it comes back.

And so I live
with this current in me.
I build small shelters around it.
I move gently
but not away.

I say:
I hear you.
You don’t have to beg.

(can art occur without an artist?)

Maybe the question is wrong.

Maybe art doesn’t begin
 with the artist.
Maybe it begins
 with a condition.
A field.
A stillness.

Something opens
  and something enters.
Not summoned.
Not owned.
Just… appearing.

A melody you hum without knowing why.
A shape your hand draws while thinking of nothing.
A line that arrives mid-walk
 with no sender,
 but undeniable weight.

Did you make it?
Or did you just
 stop being in the way?

Art, sometimes, is what happens
 in the absence
 of authorship.

It doesn’t ask for identity.
It just needs
 an opening.

A body willing
 to vanish
  long enough
  to let it speak.

Every friend when meets,
Seems an angel sent to us,
By the god from his providence,
But when departs after fulfilling,
His ends  selfish  and cunning,
All incidents of past moving.
In sky of our inner gloomy world,
Making us  cry and buzzing sad,
Echo of pain within ending world.