do you remember the time
you asked me what my fears were?

do you remember the deafening silence
before you said that you feared yourself?

i remember

your hands shook as you told me
that the monsters under your bed
were beginning to sleep beside you
and how their voices are
starting to become the voices
in your head

i remember your restrained tears
when you said that you feel your
heartbeat weakening and your end coming
and you said that that was actually
not what you feared

you said you feared your indifference
to death and how you were beginning
to agree with the nightmares that say
to you that death is sweeter than life

and you said that you were afraid
of how i might get hurt when you go

do you remember what i said?

i bet you do

because you stopped talking after
and i just want to clear that up

when i said “you’re already gone”,

it did not mean that you are no longer
of any significance to me

those words meant that i can see you
i can feel your trembling hand in mine
i can hear your anxious heartbeat

but you are not here

this is not you

this is your emptiness
taking your place

Look and you will see the tragedy that is bestowed upon us,
Children of the universe.
It eats away at our hearts like acid
Yet we grin and we grit our teeth.
Our spirits are roaring with the ache of insecurity.
We are the children of the universe.
Our thoughts are a twisted garden of vines
And no trespassing is permitted.
Our minds are guarded mighty and high.
We rise every morning and put on a smile,
Ready to show the face that we have chosen for others to know.
Our exterior is cool and prepared.
We conceal the flowers that bloom from our minds
And pull them out as though they are weeds.
We sacrifice our identities to satisfy society.
Every word we speak is one that is cautiously selected.
Our insecurity has its hands on our throats
And is slowly suffocating us.
We are all dying under the weight of hiding our truths.
We are the children of the universe.
When will we say how we feel?

and you left me so hollow,
like a mere slate of metal;
so much space
like it’s nearly a thousand light year,
the distance between
keeps stretching;
the way you softly rupture the very existence
of my eventual broken bones,
like a block of iron during the storm
left to corrode.

i still try to remember
to take my boots off
at the door

my feet are wet
from walking in the rain

i leave laetoli footprints
on the pine floor
-like the first man

trying to walk upright
but can't seem to
get it straight

There's a lot of empty space
in a house
so full of quiet

wishing for thunder.

r ~ 9/5/14

More moisture helps
the ******* of dirt
become a purification element.
The hydro-logic behind that
is completely fluid
and misunderstood.

Water is much like a brain—
it makes these connections
between polarizing elements
that will take eons
to arrive at a universal understanding
of how or why they were made.

As poets we work with the earth
to try and make sense of things—
like why exactly the purest form
of water is shed from the soil
that springs with infinite life.

The single most important aspect
of connections that contribute
to the everlasting growth of meaning
is that it's right beneath our feet,
which is probably why we
continually walk right over it.

What springs from the soils surface
is a constant cycle
of unearthing meaning.
Which is why there will never be
a shortage in the supply
of what provides us with life.