I’m cradling what’s left of the word “casual”
Because it sounds like “pretending”.
Maybe we should have said “casualty”
Because we both know the answers,
Or "causality"
As some ridiculous joke.

No, we can’t fall, we can’t fall.
When I giggled,
“Don’t get stuck on me,”
What I said was,
“I’m already stuck,
But we all have to move...
Right?"

Heard words on the radio driving home
That echoed like “coincidence”
I learned the words and echoed back
With no regard for context.

Crawling couch to bed,
Passing faces in the covers,
Say ‘hello’ my sometimes lover,
Say ‘goodbye’ and run away.
We can dance with one another,
Hold the truth until the day
When the sheets turn into clutter
And the miles casually splay.

I chose to look closer into him than most do

My discernment found worlds in him that most would not

I clung tightly to pages of mystery bound by him-ness

Grasping at tendrils of smoke and mirrors

Looking between our hands for a hidden universe.

And then

Quite suddenly

I saw him:

Just skin and words and memories

I’d simply been looking through

To find reflections of myself

There was a time when I sang on you forlornly,
So wistfully heraldic,
That I might have thought you worthy
Of a gilded biblical throne of purple-prosed petals.
Let us be grateful then, for the song of perihelion,
And the whispered wisdoms of the dear tropics,
For the fresh breath from these friends whisks me
Back to my wakening, aurelian self.
I weave the holly in my hair,
I hang the mistletoe anew,
For solitary trees stand strong,
Though weighted by the winter’s dew.
I am Helios’s rantipole
I’ve no more time for tears of old,
With so much in me left to grow,
And so far in me left to go.

The thing is, you can’t ignore that graceful lament-
The teal heaving of your chest-
The wash of questions in your head
That exquisitely hold pinpricks of the future.

There’s a brand of groan you know well
That belongs to feeling unresolved.
That noise you make when you’re a painting without a face,
When you’re two lines of a song that’s lost to the breeze,
When you’re a cup of water dribbling through careless hands,
That noise is the growl of restless dreaming.

There is a struggle to unpin yourself
From the avalanche of time
That has pooled thickly around your legs.
You try to kick, but it moves like molasses.
Slower than a hard thwack to a non-newtonian fluid.
Pointless as collecting antique doorknobs.

There is an urge to catch a destiny by the tail
Like you’re somehow prepared right now,
Like there’s nothing left to learn.
How fortunate you are that perceived linear realities
Can curve the hubris of your linear fantasies.

And yet there’s that gnawing need,
A craving that demands surrender,
That all too graceful lament,
Of being forced to take the smallest of steps
on the greatest of adventures.

He is in love with questions
And the lilting world of words,
With the fabric of philosophy
And the taste of fresh ideas.

He is in love with the smell of green
And the shifting sands of dreams,
With the hunt for profound moments
And the hunger-lust for purpose.

He is in love with his books
And the zodiacs cross the planet,
With patterns of chain reactions
And the way we cog and gear.

He is in love with pools of stardust
And fanciful notions of theory,
With darkness, deep and coveted
And the fabric it is made from.

He is in love with one who left
And the poisoned past he bathes in,
With being perpetually lonesome
And floating twixt life’s sabulous banks.

He is in love with memories, and the universe,
And nobody else.

With my choking heart, I’m grasping at dust,
And I am in love with him.

Lately
I **Long
for the Love
that I once Left
when I chose the Lonely
path of discovery and difficult Learning.

My
steps Melt
into the Miles
I tread when Meandering
round town each cloudy Morning
'til each crisp and tender Midnight

Softly
I Sing
the tender Songs
not meant for Solitude
and gently drop a Sigh
waiting patiently for another ripe Summer

I beam when leaves stick
To the bottom of my heavy leather boots,
As I tromp from one place to the next,
Irritated yet pleased when they're STILL THERE,
After every sticky, wet step.

I think leaves are meant to bustle and blow
In Autumn as they do in Spring,
And that leaves have a yearning,
(After rooted so long)
To see the world.

The wind whispers to the leaves,
“I have been here to caress you all along,
And I am here to carry you now,
And bear you to beautiful new places.”
And the leaves sigh and surrender,
And flutter to the ground,
Then back to air,
Then to ground,
Laughing merrily,
Tumbling,
Enjoying the last few moments alive.

When leaves stick
To the bottom of my heavy leather boots
As I tromp from one place to the next,
I have the satisfaction of knowing
That these leaves would not have seen
The places I have taken them.
They would not have left
Pieces of themselves in the concrete.
That somehow I have helped fulfill a dream
By moving their dying fragments,
Like scattering ashes,
And showing them a new world
If only a hundred feet away.

Today there is a veil upon my world:
A gauzy muting of sound,
A mist that’s permeated the corners of thought.

I know there is a crisp clarity outside:
a pounding passion in the sunlit world,
A million hues to roll in and embrace.

My tingly thought centers all recede:
Rejecting stimuli like adventurous taste buds
Recovering from exciting, scalding tea burns.

I just have to remember and accept:
Sometime there are going to be days like this.
Lazy, hazy.

I would like
To witness you in another habitat,
And childishly pester you at work,
And awkwardly make pointless conversation-
Just enough to keep you wondering
If I came to see you or not.

I would like
To delicately undress your mind,
And walk up out of nowhere,
And playfully invite with a coy little smile-
To discuss your philosophy
Under the mundane guise of “coffee”.

I would like
To introduce my spirit to yours,
And let them circle each other in the park,
And sniff out each other’s aetherous attributes-
Perhaps initiating a game of fetch
Between two nervous systems.

I would like
To steal a busy night away,
And show you all my mundane wonders,
And see what you have to say-
Could you ascend truths in my walls
Unbeknownst even to me?

I would like
To be perfectly forward,
And say “You sparkle and intrigue me,
And I would like to get to know you better,” -
Do people do that?
I would like to.

Supersonic Skydive
Tell me, what's your helmet like?
Can you hear the roar of breaking
barriers of sound?
Or is it silent in your dome
Have they built you like a home
A cradle for the jumping few
Who chose to do as daring do?
Supersonic Skydive,
Tell me, what's the view there like?
Can you see the rounding planet
Arching back in every stretch?
And do the stars look different here
Beyond the blinking atmosphere,
And when you rushing, sink away,
When do you find the blue of day?
Supersonic Skydive
So lucky to be so alive
And as you plummet to the ground,
Tell me, do you look up, or down?

My past is this landscape of places that I’ve only ever seen in documentaries;
It can’t exist but somehow it must.
Your eyes are these temples built high that have fallen into sandy desecration;
Though once worshiped, they have not stood the test of time.
I was once able to say you were my world.
I miss being so simple and wrong.
It was easier.
Back then.

Eyes meet
In the corner coffee stall
Flint and tinder
All this time
Hello there!
Scrambling
Words all tumble
Scintillating
Knocking tables
Metal legs airborne
Clawing madly
Un-crisping collars
Found you
On the garnet cushions
Back to life
Imagination spinning
Staring at me
Whoops
Having daydreams
Once again.

I’m aware that you decided to forget me.
I can see it’s your intent to shut me out.
It’s an ugly wall to right,
Bricks all leapt up overnight,
And the mortar’s wet with words you won’t recount.

I won’t need to see your charming lines of orchards,
For there’s rot that festers in forbidden fruit.
I won’t care if they’re all gone,
For the seasons move me on,
And no longer is the aim worth the pursuit.

Ah, I see the raging worms that have consumed you.
I’ll acknowledge that you took a mighty fall.
Yet, you’re the only one to blame,
And now you can’t control your shame,
Which explains the buried evidence and all.

On my part, I shall recount the days of summer,
For I no longer must work to sweep your name.
No more lusting; that’s all over,
Though your act’s no longer covert!
No, I’ll keep my juicy stories just the same!

So here lies the final chapter of our friendship.
For my life, I can’t tell why it comes to this.
Take the lies that you hold dear,
And your careless, cheating fear;
I shall skin what’s left, and fashion cloaks of bliss.

Today I extended a hand to fate
To see which door it would pull me through,
And it chose the one I was afraid of.

Today I put the universe to test
Since challenging authority is always best,
And it pulled me along for the ride.

Today I stood on railroad tracks
Because I wondered if I was invincible
And I wasn’t.

Today I sliced myself open
For I’d forgotten the pattern of my soul’s veins
And I remembered.

So I closed my eyes and bit my lip
And jumped right off that breaking ship
And into waves of foamy spray,
Which tended to my bleeding way,
The held me and caressed me so,
And whispered of the things they know
They carried me to sandy banks
And left me dreaming, giving thanks.

I awoke in a pool of scarlet,
feeling the wretched tendrils
of darker, greener enemies
working their way in while I slept.

I awoke in a pool of scarlet,
Knowing what I had to do
And applied antiseptic,
But no anesthetic.

I awoke,
Knowing why fate chose this door,
Knowing where the universe had taken me,
Knowing that though broken, I’d survived,
Knowing what it was to be me.

Knowing not to let the poison in
And not to let the shadows win.

Oh that we were not creatures
Sometimes so in tune with our world.
My stomach is telling me
That something must happen today.

Camel crush cigarettes
Put them in a fancy box
No, I’m too poor to buy them
But if you pass’em
Then I won’t say no.

People say that it’s unclean
That you’re unclean
That they’re unclean
You smell like a hotel room
And it’s comforting.

Camel crush cigarettes
Your hugs speak of the habit
No, take your precious smoke break
**** it clean to dust
Barreling into death.

People say that it’s unwise
That you’re unwise
That they’re unwise
You smell like drunken Saturdays
And it’s delicious.

Camel crush cigarettes
I’ve never felt addiction
No, I don’t think that I could
It’s a scarlet dreamland
With one-way tickets.

People say that it’s unkind
to lungs and mind
They’re right, I find.
But you look like abandon
And it’s inviting.

Camel crush cigarettes
I’ve never loved a smoker
No, I’d always been too proper
But if you tasted like that
I wouldn’t mind a bite.

People say that you’re catering
To your un-ease
With a disease.
You feel like contradiction,
And I’m depraved.

My sensibilities are broken,
How dare you turn me into this?
Learning to live without you
Is learning to live so dangerously.

Gone are the halcyon days of
Danger, danger...
Where’s my coffee?
I fell in love,
(That's what I do)
I fell,
before I ever knew
just what that kind of bitter was.
It tastes just like it always does,
And I can't keep it  longer
on my tongue.

Dear distant stranger,
I would like to get to know you
But I’m afraid
I’ve no more quarters for the telephone.
Oh well, I guess it’s not okay.
I’ll hotwire my way anyway.
I guess I’m getting sorta good
at being where I know I shouldn’t.

I guess I never really saw you as vulnerable
With love all around
But now I see you’re just as broken.
(Well that’s just my luck this round).
And I guess I could be a life preserver,
But honey that’s not my job,
And I’d grow weary-sick of *******
-Need to wash the neon orange off-
Well, you wouldn’t want it anyway.
Flounder, drown your dreams away.

Look at me and look at you too,
I’ve made you an animal in the zoo.
I’m gawking,
Always do this,
Talking,
Like ‘Come on now, let's do this’.

Shut up and break these tiny voices
Telling me what I ought to do.
Convince me that there is no cycle
And that I'm not just
Giving my life to people
and my heart to their ideas.

There are false idols in my room.
There are false idols in my head.
To idols, I have lent my life.
To idols, I have lent my bed.
Statues of the world I seek,
Semblances of what I know,
Truth has burnt its image here,
But ever floated on, its glow.
Holding tight to broken dreams
That crumble-crackle as I clutch,
I could have built them pinions fair
But I have strangled them too much.
Now fresh lucidity is here
To wake me from my sluggish sleep
Oh, glorious sanctity of light
Your mindful meaning I shall keep.

Everything happens for a reason.
And though I can’t yet fathom
Why my stars have left me now,
I know that there is a lesson in this.
There is something bigger out there,
Something beyond the now,
Something calling from the deep,
Shining, darkness of temporality itself.
And so the distance has come to me
Over sweeping valleys of moments passing,
And tracks of trees and fields of fixed events,
And the wave has moved through them all
To tell me:
“You are this. You are now.
Yet also what we know you shall be.
Take this bloodied bludgeon that was hope
And find in it the gift that shall forge you.
It is a steel monument, washed in crimson,
Standing to honor what is,
And what is yet to come.”

Tiptoe timidly,
oh my tongue.
Speak not the words
That toe on your tip.
Swallow the surplus,
you swift little thing,
And mind that these slivers
Are given to slip.
Forget your fidgeting,
Fingers of mine.
Flee from the keystrokes
You’re fighting to flip.
Quiet your queries,
Your qualms, and questions.
Kith care not for clinging,
Nor for your quips.

Don’t question the words
That are murmured in whispers
For they are the truest
Words to be heard.
The truth is in silence
And silence alone
But a whisper is closest
To what we can know.
And all of the atoms
That shake on their own
All carry a pitch
And carry a tone.
These too are whispers,
Though harder to hear
For no single atom
Will startle your ear.
So all that I’ve whispered
Just next to your head?
Don’t question those
Wild remarks that I’ve said.
You may have your doubts
In the noise of the day
But watch for my silence
Then whisper away.

On old mainstreet, sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.

Rednecks and faux-necks and used-to-be-loggers,
Crafters and rafters, and activist bloggers,
And poets and hippies and mystics and fools,
And outcasts from the secondary schools,
And gypsies too: you’ll find them here,
Drowning in local, hand-crafted beer.

At night, locals sip organic tea,
And turn up the menagerie
Of lights and mics from another age,
Pieced together to make a stage.
And there, the guitarists waste their breath
Beating the Same. Four. Chords. To. Death.

There are some new lyrics, there and here,
But all of them memories of yester-year:
A year spent in the same **** space,
With others who’ve never left this place.
They sing of their dear loves and pasts,
And how much longer the wandering lasts.

And on they wail, and on they moan,
And twang the antique, rustic tone,
But their faces show they like it here,
This breaking haunt of yester-year,
And after the set, they carouse with cheer,
And smile contentedly to their beer.

On old mainstreet sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.

What are these bands around your wrists
These frayed stories that barely cling?
And what are these enchantments held
That cradle your touch between each ring?
And what is this ancient writing here
That’s inked from shops of yester-year?
Is there a relic about you yet
That makes your brackish past run clear?

What is that place your eye seeks out
When your steady gaze is aether-bound?
And what steep truths have you traversed
To gather poise as you have found?
What shadows passing now have stayed
And fears upon tanned shoulder weighed?
Can mysteries be unraveled here
That in your piercing focus played?

Oh wandering mystery mountain man,
Oh sweet conundrum of my dreams,
Oh distant altruistic love,
Oh ponderer of whispering streams,
Wherefore do the stars yet speak
So I can hear their secret calls,
But ever in their praises keep
Your hidden name in cosmic halls?
Yes, to my ears they murmur deep
The stain-ed truths of earth and sky
But never leaks that hopeful peep;
Verisimilitude is shy.

Forever my enigma: you.
The heavens sagely made it so.
For I have solved the their secrets through,
But so much in you left to know.

There’s no point in *******, today,
Because I’m not looking for skin...
Today it’s cosmic electricity.
Because I can’t smell the screen's pheromones,
And there’s something to be said for chemistry.
Because I can touch my own *******,
But familiarity is hard-pressed to impress.
Because the only scraping and biting here
Is far from raunchy; my teeth are restless.
Because people have **** opinions and nuances,
And today I see caricatures but no people.
Because it’s all poor, uninspired acting,
And the only singular thing I want is truth.
The only singular thing I want.
Is truth.

Nothing against *******.
Today or ever.
But there are some lonely stretches
When I’m perched on the edge of the world,
Aroused to adventure,
And Life is buzzing past me
And I desperately want to rip into it
And savor and lick and **** out its seed
And reach into its hair and pull hard
As we bruise and break each other
And SCREAM OUT
-- LIFE!
Where redtube just won’t cut it.

I think that maybe I take breakups
And half-breakups
And “I think we should just stay friends”
And “I’m moving across the country!”
And “Let’s just pretend it never happened…”
And “Sorry, I’m already doing something else that night”
so horrifically,
and yet so horrifically well,
Because life in my head
Is constantly romancing
And then breaking up
With everyone.

I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.

I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.

I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.

I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.

I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.

I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.

I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.

I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.

Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.

I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.

There are people I know
Who will say that we are created in “God”s image
And who actually believe
That “God” has four limbs
And a head that grows hair
And finger-skins that peel
When performing demanding tasks
Such as creating worlds.

And though I think that’s kind of silly
And don’t use the term “God” like billions do
And don’t think of a body or gender
Geographically heaven-bound
Playing with pawns of people
And actually giving a ****,
I think that maybe
There’s an element of truth in this.

That by mere existence
WE are this Force;
This omni-omni-thing.
WE have created “God”
In the image of ourselves.

Finding twigs in my hair
From where I impulsively rolled in the grass.
Ha.
Should have known that days of summer
Were too good not to pass.

You’re like a trick candle
When you light up
Atop a cake full of frosting and promise.
And I become so very excited!
Too excited.
And I think…
I can’t have my cake and my candle too.
Candles are pretty, temporary things.
Thank you for candles, but I can't keep them,
give me my cake!
And so I ***** out this silly idea
And set you aside.
And then all of the sudden you’re there again
Setting my napkin on fire.
Which is inconvenient.

Note to self: **** napkins.
Life is for sticking your face in cake
And then getting your hair caught on fire
By trick candles.

So many things to say to so many people
So many things that I’ll never say
At the end of the day it’s just me and myself
Lying naked on my bed
Fingernails longing for something they can’t touch
And doing their best to quench their thirst for life
And I’m dragging my toes along the bed-sheets
Squirming with the words unsaid.
And maybe I won’t let them spill
Because I’m afraid of the havoc they’ll wreak,
But maybe it’s because you wouldn’t listen
And you wouldn’t respond
And they would lay to waste and writhe and shatter
And crumble like a burning paper’s living soul
Left to clutter my mind
Like “This is all your fault. So pick it up.”
Even this will fall into a corner and be swept away
Because that’s what happens to the words I decide to say.

A couple of innocent words. A wink. I can’t pretend I don’t know how she feels. I suppose it’s the way that they all feel. And then I look at her.
She’s the kind of girl that you’d ironically fall for. Model skin, model hair. She actually speaks French, nom de diu! She takes pretty pictures of herself amongst the scenery, posing as one who is very much alive. You, who would protest about how photographs can’t capture the majesty of the world, and find a certain amount of deadness in that which is judged by the surface, you’d fall for her anyway.
With her pretty lips and pretty mouth. They could say the words that my mouth says and you wouldn’t find the same meaning, but you’d want her ideas that much more. The saccharine taste of pretty.
You just would.

I’m afraid for you to leave
Because when you’re gone
You won’t fit in any of the little picture-frames
I’ve built for you in my mind.
The edges will be blurry
And I’ll be losing part of the picture of you.

I’m afraid for you to leave
Because when you’re gone
You’ll continue to find all the beautiful new things
and you’ll try to shrug away the old.
You’re still learning to live;
It will hurt too much to keep this fresh.

I’m afraid for you to leave
Because when you’re gone
I’ll have one less thing that draws me to the hills
And the valleys and rivers of home.
Now that you too have heard the call
To venture from the blanket we’ve woven.

I’m afraid for you to leave
Because when you’re gone
You’ll find that you can never really come back
No matter how much your heart complains.
The world is too vast and you’re too young
To live amongst the things you love.

I’m afraid for you to leave.
I’m afraid, most of all,
Because when you’re gone…
Despite all the beautiful things that you’ll find
And despite all the lessons you’ll learn over time
And despite the new loves and new dreams that await
And despite the fresh views that new places create
And DESPITE that your conscience will blossom and bloom
And despite that new life and new love you’ll exhume…
I’m afraid of one thing, and it’s breaking my heart
To be scared, when you’re daring this brand-new start…

I’m afraid your long glance is the last that I’ll see.
I’m afraid that you’ll never come back to find me.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I wasn’t supposed to fall so hard
I wasn’t supposed to call out for your arms in the night
And my lips weren’t supposed to search for yours
As if they would actually be there.
I wasn’t supposed to nuzzle into my pillow at night
pretending that your hands were nestled in my hair
I wasn’t supposed to make small talk
just so I could hypnotize myself with that something in your eyes
I wasn’t supposed to wake up cold in the gray morning
with the strong urge to be bruised and bitten
In fits of slow, languid passion.

Unreal how our bodies match and move together,
Uncanny how our minds meld and play in synch.
My youthful love for life,
Your chuckling maturity, still unsure what life is.

Now I play soft ballads full of aching, yearning,
I can wrap myself in a blanket on the floor
With a mug of tea, and think silently on you
And the shadows I wish I could conjure into existence…
They live inside, dancing to burst free from our guilty bodies
Too ethereal, too beautiful, to be abandoned
When we (artists) know we live for such wonders.

I wish I had any other option but forgetting,
or descending into madness.
(I’m currently choosing madness..?)

And it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I wasn’t supposed to fall so hard.
I’m so sorry,
My summer love.

I woke with the grey dawn again,
Thinking of you,
And couldn’t fall back asleep.
I brewed some tea again,
Thinking of you,
And did the ******* dishes.
So that was more or less productive.