in ink upon my spine
a space, long drained
there lies a soliloquy
which speaks
in whispers.
unknown sense
and
the universe laughs,
little girl it teases,
your instant gratification
pathos is showing.
let go
of that battle, the owl cries.
your tight grip on time
a ruse.
missy, cried the moon
this agenda you struggle
with...look at me
how i just show up,
breathe soft one, breathe.
laughing the sun shakes
her voice while throwing light
at the moon, i just show up
too, though i'm oft accused
of slipping away.
i understand your battle,
beautiful girl
because like you, they
assume i return unchanged
my fresh form a mere
oversight.
angrily, the daisies
shake their stalks,
ignored, walked upon,
most beings ignorant
to our stature. yet,
we rise from the soil
rich with the droppings of
the dead. new
made of the old.
unsure of their advice
and where to turn
i fold, inward.
the universe's forces, brilliant
and insightful
meant to empower
instead highlight my
inadequacy and lack
of rooting,
nothing more than unknowns
pouring from an
empty vial that whispers
silence and space.

that night
that dress.
the way when
i turned just
right, my
breast appeared.
and you, pride?
but a scolding
while you sought
candy all night.
nothing underneath,
and i was flushed,
hopeful, always.
you didn't see me
though.
you never
did

an early escape
and the week slips by.
a year now, this person,
this professional.
a mask most days, after
years of silent obscurity.
experienced beyond academic
measure
friction and backlash.
but so what
a rock that's never been rubbed?
time marched its
cadence, the past
season folding in on itself
with little evidence of any
living.
december's throes
long forgotten
as those pristine sheets fade
the ocean existed then
and there was optimism.
laughter of course,
because there never really was.
a long goodbye as
a creative cork.
but the surface reappeared,
as it always does
and the bobbing slowed; shift.
finally time contracts
exposes its tears
to the open eye.
souls fall away and
mood affects the
framework. wanderers
passed, their souls sticky
and spring bounced onto stage.
suddenly the weekend looms, and visitors
promised.
the sound in the room slows
and the realization of
present creeps back
in on an endless loop.

morning arrives
and i am angry
i feel the acid pouring through my
veins, cold at the
back of my throat as
it burns its path
through my rushing
bloodstream.
fawn response and
am left to run, as
far and as fast as
my legs will allow.
avoiding the fallout
of a promised war.
looking in the mirror,
a never-ending
karmic battle between
past and future. good
girl gone bad, or just the
opposite? not really mattering
the roses die, the
water stagnates and
my heart is pretty much
dead.
the sun's arrival,
generally potent,
flaccid this dawn
as i curse the slumber-filled
night, silent and empty.
dreams muted, the
result of a chemical
sleep, intended to silence the run-on
daydreams.
so what, how to
retract this flawed
refraction? summer
bounces nearer and the
night's heat will intensify,
raising the potential for violence, the
streets of my soul
quickly clogging
with unexpected
acetylcholine bursts,
moderation necessary
as i begin to drown
in my own
apocalyptic undoing.

the night, long
a period of silence
and i'm trapped
sanity; a literary device.
heavy and pervasive,
pouring through my
work.
feelings hidden, their
meaning diffused
and appropriately
shaped.
and who's to notice?
those who see
even their eyes
hooded by doubts.
disillusioned
the hum persists
and i watch
the clock, my
system flooded
electrically wired and pumping
full-speed
putting the words out
pushing them
their power invasive
and addictive.

blocked, days now and frustrated as hell
how tiring to pour so effortlessly for months
and then the desert comes through pulling
everything from the scape.
sure, there's blooming going on
and the flowers out front are red and yellow
the crepes are starting to burst
and the grass is green, but my words keep dying.

cancer maybe, eating the page as if it were a white blood cell
nothing but black mire in its path and wasted time.
the screen laughs of course, and i grow angrier, my time taxed.
lunch hours dry as a bone. admin watching and me keeping silent
about my passion.
what will it take? i am not van gogh and don't have the muse
for which to segment.
maybe time, that old benefactor, so patient, he passes and eventually
the words reappear, chasing a black cloud of darkness.
why then? that is maybe where it lies, the truth.
why when things are at their darkest am i so quick to spill?
of course what comes out is often unsavory and sour,
but
the souls eat that up.
you're dark they say, and i laugh, because they know nothing.
so when then? when shall i expect their hardy return?
i guess to hold tight is my only choice. transitions everywhere
literally and figuratively. summer itself bringing professional shift.
earlier days brought round and sunrises rushed, life constraints.
i'll wait though, be patient, as i've been for so long now, howling
only occasionally.