I have lost my sun,
Though I still orbit in a strange attraction.

I have lost my music,
Though I know my heart sings sound.

I have lost my vision,
Though I see in dreams an impossible beauty.

I have lost my sense,
Though this world has never tasted as sour.

I have lost my purpose,
Though aimlessly, I write in the pale drear of twilight.

I have lost my reason,
Though I chart dangerous courses without a crew.

I am the last falls of the loveliest red proscenium
curtain.

I am over, undone, a foundling, lost,
Without you.

As I sang him to sleep
My winter gave way to his warm
While the moon danced on my skin
fever burned deeper than I’ve ever known
Or dared to have shown
To him
And he wondered what it was about me
How in silence I invaded his demeanor
Making life smell so much sweeter
Heavy is my love
like a slow rising fever
And in absence, I know I love him
As he holds in his hand, my pearl
And me, an empty shell of a girl
With armor at my feet
Forever waiting for his warm
While I sing myself
To sleep

He loves me when he loves me
He convinces me
I’m the kind who serves up suicide with every Ciroc poured
in the neon blue of this town
where dreams turn cold but where,
He says,
I,
I am as hot as the blue light flame
He opens the Pandora’s curiosity in me
With warm breath and a silent scream
he makes me say his name
I know there’s fiction in the space between us
covered in polyurethane that some would consider toxic
but where I,
I rub my flesh into the smooth and dip fingers into my inkwell
He makes me an artist
He has a way
Hurt me a little
Make me cry
Rubbing this little pendulum of mine
I want to know I knew you even before I knew you
Savor you like an oyster
Memorize you
Hold you under my tongue
Learn you by heart so when you leave
I can go to the inkwell, again
*Orlando

You've made some mistakes,
I have too.
In some ways we’re pretty similar,
in others I am nothing like you.

I've been stung by a wasp on the same part of my heart
so many times that this familiar
disappointment shouldn't hurt anymore.
Gardeners develop callouses on their hands
because nurturing others to life with love
is the hardest thing they will ever do.
I can show you the rough patch of tissue
and muscle, right on the epicardium; I've cut myself open
time and again for others to peer inside, that it has
become automatic, synchronized with each beat
and thump. I don't know how to become close
to people without bleeding for them, but none
yet have been able to withstand the sight of
a brilliant crimson geyser showering
from my chest. If day after day I continue getting stung,
suffering like Prometheus when the eagle tore at his liver,
I know that I'll get rescued like him, too. Only I won't
be looking out for Heracles and a centaur- just a person
with open, calloused hands.

Let me be the first to set the record straight
Yes I have Happy Feet
That play to the tune inside my head
First the right then the left then back again

At times it's hard to keep them still
They tend to move at their own will
They stomp and jump, run and dance
And even more given half a chance

That's why I take my Happy Feet
Everywhere I go with me
You never know when a tune might hit
That needs a beat to go along with it