My ribcage:
Full, then hollow,
Snatches of memory,
then fear,
Press, snag, then release,
Like Breathing.
Heavy, ponderous breathing.

I keep creating
impossible lists
to save myself
from listlessness,
of books to read
and things to do,
for I know the only
way out is through.

I'm supposed to pretend that I don't hear
Sobbing and swearing in the next room.
I usually turn to my ear-buds,
Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, and Ke$ha...
But my playlists,
So carefully crafted
from dreams and moonbeams,
are now mine fields -
Nearly unnavigatable
Without triggering an explosion
Of him.

Watch me
and I am a wheel -
always finding a way
to spin anything into gold.
But given just the right moment,
and just the right rush of speed,
you will see me as I truly am:
A gyroscope,
my angular momentum
keeping me upright.
And you -
You are always the right rush of speed,
And it is always the right moment.

I think, perhaps,
That vulnerability and wit,
(the aims of this challenge),
have sufficiently sharpened my words -
and judging by the slice of life
that I have served,
and how my exposed outlet
now needs tourniqueting,
I think, perhaps,
It is the swordsmanship
That I must now practice.
I am no devotee
of the church of restraint,
But I think, perhaps,
That there are limits
on how much you can bleed
before running dry
or drowning others.

Burn Area.
Take quiet, reverent steps
through the charred steeple spires
and listen to the roaring echo
of an event so fierce
and nightmarishly tragic
that we must soothe ourselves, saying,
"Everything in its own time," and
"This ecosystem needs fire to grow."
But systems are merely products
of their conditions,
and nothing needs lightning.
Life doesn't thrive on tragedy -
It exists in spite of it.
Just as we are not born in space
and yet we hurtle through it,
So too does bright fireweed spring
between these spindly, blackened corpses.

He's a rare kind
With rare kindness
So he'd never
In a moment
Of electrostatic tension
Close the gap
Between our lips.
And truthfully,
It has been so long
And I've learned so much
About consent
And ruined friendships
That I don't remember how.

Just like a river, meandering true,
I'm like a river flowing back to you,
From the Alpine turquoise to the ocean blue,
Cascadia, flow through me.

Just like a Cabernet, smooth and red,
You're like a wine flowing to my head,
I won't get enough, not until I'm dead,
Cascadia, flow through me.

Just like the city running to and fro,
I'm like the city when I even and flow,
Like a train, if I leave, I know back I'll go,
Cascadia, flow through me.

Just like blood, with no end or start,
I'm like the blood flowing back to my heart,
Returning to you, dear, has become an art,
Cascadia, flow through me.

Just like the city train, just like blood,
If you're the soil, I'll be the bud,
Just like the river, just like wine,
If I'm coming home to you, I'm gonna be fine.
Cascadia, flow through me,
Cascadia, flow through me.

Just put it behind you,
Just keep yourself busy,
Just list all the things
You can touch, hear, and see.
Pretend it was nothing
Pretend it’s not real
But don’t say you’re sorry
For things that you feel.

Or do say sorry!
I don’t know - is that wrong?
No - don’t say a thing
Just move right along.
Just skip to tomorrow
Just keep today fast
Just let time change hands
From Future to Past.

Just breathe, and get lost,
In the radio’s wails
It echoes your secrets
And tells all your tales.
Just breathe, and fill hours
Don’t look at your phone,
The past may lay bare,
But tonight is your own.

And finally, be ever
so kind to your soul
Have patience with all
Of your amorous arts.
Give yourself graciousness
Lovely and whole -
The same that you hold
For all other hearts.

Give yourself the gift
of a day alone -
a day of your own making -
of singing madly,
scribbling passionately,
eating well,
listening deeply to your own desires,
and sitting with your own folly.
Give yourself this,
and you will never feel loneliness
as an insurmountable ache
again.

The Sun sets more quickly each eve
by mere perceived fractions
But each time I am more aware
the preciousness of breath.

It is a moment
so delicate
that eventually
a single heavy breath
and slice of light
will crack...
But for now
it is a hushed dawn
so breakable.

I can pinpoint the day,
The place,
The hour,
And the clothes we were wearing.
You stood too close
As you murmured a joke,
And the scent you wore filled my head
As I laughed and laughed.
I marvel that this subtle quake
Could set everything in motion,
And yet,
I've been adrift ever since.

Are there secrets at the bottom
of this bottle here to savor?
And are they more commensurate
to its volume, or its flavor?
Could ascetic tongues here loosen
and become more libertine?
And could cold feet here defrost,
performing dances unforeseen?
Oh, I think that we should try it -
drink me underneath the table,
For I have no use for secrets,
but I'll trade mine if I'm able.

I still need the occasional jolt -
a pinch -
a reality check -
to wake me
from the dreaming world
of long-held hopes,
suddenly manifested.
I try writing it all down
and replaying all that I remember -
Revelations, hands, scents, astral bodies -
and I just fall deeper
into the unreal.
So for now
(absent that jolt)
I'll make do
with the occasional buzz
from my pocket.

I can stretch my sanity,
I can bare my soul,
I can wear it on my sleeve,
on my wrist,
in my pulse,
I can bear the vanity,
I can stretch my sanity...

I can stretch my time,
I can do it all,
I can stay up with my pen,
'til my eyes
start to fall,
I can work the overtime,
I can stretch my time...

I can stretch my limits,
I can be so chill,
I can hold myself
down and try
to be still,
I can breathe it in,
I can stretch my limits...

For Now.

I wonder if it's possible to love the stars
as fiercely as I do
Without loving love just as fiercely.
There is a stirring so deep
and so intimately connected to my whole
when I'm under their spell,
not unlike the song of my heart in heat.
And yet, for some,
These things are disconnected.
I only wish for a way
of knowing your experience,
And a way to share this sweet richness
if yours is lacking,
Like an artist sharing a sweet pairing
of music and words,
wine and chocolate,
or color and light,
Where there previously was none.

This fire
That he inspires
Has lived a million lives and
Died a million deaths.

The narrative's reinvented each time,
My hands pass over it each time,
The flame changes form each time.

Spring and rebirth,
Help to give this gift meaning
And shape this light into
Something helpful,
Something healthy,
Something new.

We can't care for oceans,
We can't care for whale pods,
We can't care for rivers,
Or salmon or cod,
We can't care for beaches,
We can't care for birds,
For the stolen land,
Or its people, or herds,
We reuse our bags,
We refuse our straws,
We opt for less package
Whenever we can
But faced with these scars,
We sink in our tracks,
Powerless, unaware,
Where to begin?
It's bigger than us,
It isn't one person,
One Trashless Saint
Can't save us, that's certain.
"Let's tear down the systems!"
We say, "They're all broken!"
Without hope of waking
The ones who aren't woken.
I have no "right way"
To channel distress,
Cause nobody sees
A way out of this mess.

Drunk girl wants a cigarette
To re-taste the ash of past regret.
Drunk girl wants to straddle you
And kiss you 'til your lips turn blue.
Drunk girl must relieve her chest
And languidly expose each breast.
Drunk girl wants to cut footloose;
The mundane knots now form a noose.

Sober girl doesn't have the time.
Sober girl is much too grown.
Sober girl is married to years,
Married to plans,
Married to age,
Married, married, married.

But staying sober
Is so hard to do
Yes, liquor is quicker,
But drinking's not the only way yo
Get drunk off of you.

Already,
Fall's chill licks my spine,
And rather than dread,
my shoulders shiver
with the memory of last year,
at this time,
When the sun in the leaves
Held an indomitable shine.
For then I traipsed
Through brilliant reds,
Brilliant hope,
And brilliant love -
Through soft wool,
Soft song,
And soft heartbreak -
Through quiet frost,
Quiet awe,
And quiet perseverance.
The dwindling days held secrets
Only a fresh heart could hear,
And these sweet mysteries
Were both balm and poison
to my heart and ear.
This year,
my cold frame remembers,
With gut still abuzz,
Eyes still alight,
And chest still aflame,
But it has all been muted
To a soft, pulsing glow.
This cycle has gripped me hard,
And wrung much from my dream-drenched core,
This glow a mere echo of passions before,
As autumn slowly falls once more.

Why is it always
the days when I miss you the most
that I return to find you
in the foulest of mads?
(I try to fix it,
Because of course I do,
Until I remember all the power songs
Telling me not to bother.)
This is how I learned to be alone.

It must be maddening,
if not terrifying,
to be loved by me.
Attempts to temper me are useless,
For I can only love with flames
burning hot, bright, and white
like dazzling stars,
until smouldering embers
ignite everything I hold dear,
leaving brittle, black scars in my wake.
Even now, as the dreams I clutched too closely crackle and crumble,
my cheeks burn,
flushed with embarrassment and anguish,
and the grieving pouring down them is so hot, they could boil and steam.
My stomach churns with heat,
and I am a dragon heaving forth hell.
I am too impetuous, impatient, imprudent,
a relentless, tempestuous firestorm.
I am too many words too quickly,
A meteor shower of poetry and regret.

I have woken up too early
For a sun that will not rise
And my dreams have flown with moonlight
Leaving cold and clouded skies.
But maybe next breath,
Next hour,
Next sun,
Or next moon
I'll be warm?
I must hope that I will.

The winter has her chilling cold,
The wilderness is ruggedness,
The ocean has her pressure bold,
And space, an abyss of nothingness...

Majesty is most often guarded by Peril.
To find her -
and I mean truly find her,
You must first be armored
with tools of science,
and essentials of life,
Then with your wits
and ambition,
And then,
Just one thing more...

(An openness
of heart and mind...)

Then you might reap the wonder
of seeing more, and knowing little.

I have learned to love the quiet moments
When it's just me,
Dragging my toes across the fitted sheet,
Petting one long, silky leg with the other,
Fingernails tracing familiar paths
Down naked roads
Longing to quench their thirst for life
And the things they can't touch.
With skin taut and tingly,
And core soft and warm like butter,
I am squirming with secrets unspilt,
Deeds undone,
And havoc unwrought,
Waiting for a magic word or touch
To come undone.

My cheeks are scorched
by the fire in my blood
and words begin
to well within
But my courage is scorched
by another fire
that's dammed the well,
and I can't begin.

Honesty comes at a price -
But so did the countless rounds
of glasses, boxes, bottles, and cans
that we bought
while searching for a substitute.
We may be in one hell of a mess now
But at least we'll never
have to drink that much again
just to speak our hearts.

It is Scorpio season
in every possible sense,
For there is no safe, solid,
middle ground to stand upon
That hasn't been wet-soaked
with its flood and blood,
That transforms the gentle earth
to obfuscating mud.

But then, perhaps, it is actually clay,
taking shape under a vision in silver,
For the full moon in Taurus also glides
across these charged, ******, Scorpio skies.

Oh, sweet hallucination
of a lucid dream,
What I once sought to treasure,
is not what it seems.
I stumble through morning
to shake myself loose,
From the cruel kiss
of a seductive noose.
Oh, sweet imagination,
please leave me be,
All your tender entanglements
are torturing me.
In my waking life
I remember and feel
Things that did not happen,
and are not real.

KFC, Box Wine, and Oreos.
We'd scream, howl, and cry
every thought under the moon
for hours in your Jetta,
wandering McElroy Park,
or drunk on the living room carpet.
We'd take notes so we could "make art"
out of our feelings,
the laugh through tears
at the absurdity of it all.
Together,
there was fire and magic
in the dark.
Is anything forever?
Of course not.
We did that then,
But we know it now.

We are ADULTS with AGENCY
and the power to manifest our desires
if we can only be courageous.
Therefore,
Why not do so?
They have called me
Crazy, Foolish, and Daring
for sharing my poems and passions so freely,
But I am simply unwilling
to waste time lying.

Way up in the mountains,
Pumped up with endorphins,
At such elevation,
After such respiration,
I collapse with elation,
By my exquisite companion,
Digging into a sandwich
with such determination,
And every last sorrow
drains out of me,
if only for now.
I heave a long, tender,
whispered prayer:
Bliss and only Bliss.
This and only This.

My soft futon beckons,
And I have saved half a bottle
Of companionship and comfort
For tomorrow's adventure.
There are frustrations and exhaustions
sewn throughout my brain,
But now is the time
To put them to sleep.
Tonight we spend long hours together,
Spilling childhoods and chilled liquor,
Keeping the night bright,
And wrapping ourselves in laughter.
Tomorrow we venture forth,
Face down our differences,
And search for some new way
To fight back the dark...
After we sleep.

Everything, it seems,
is a study in entropy.
Everything changes or collapses,
And living is either
Fighting madly
to keep it all together
or standing strong
as it all collapses and changes
around you,
until you too
collapse and change
out of existence.
Living is either
Grabbing hold of everything
and screaming as each attachment
is ripped and rended
from your grasp
or letting all slip through your fingers,
never feeling anything
except in passing.
Living is a dance in limbo,
Wanting the best of both lives,
And living neither.

The poisoning isn't always painful
like a rattlesnake or arsenic.
Sometimes,
it is a whisper,
soft and sweet,
like a lullaby that sings "carbon monoxide,"
a bit too much fun too quickly
as you slip into a black overdose,
a poppy-soaked dreamland.
Sometimes,
it is a fragment of reality
that was real once
but exists now as some new non-truth,
the thing you want to hear
picked out of the words spoken,
a misguided make-believe.
Sometimes,
it is a song we both love
the night we heard it
and the memory I built around it,
a cloying clawing
corrupting with a buzz and haze,
a saccharine toxin to the imagination.

The fresh memories of
the impossibility of your words,
the incandescence of your eyes,
and the intoxication of your lips
comes in flashes,
running down my prickling neck,
through my tingling core,
and to my trembling toes.
They are small bolts of lightning
striking the same place,
over and over and over -
infinitely unlikely,
shocking, shaking, and grounding,
all at once.

While wandering Wonderland
My companions ask,
"What do you want to see next?"
"Anything!" I respond,
Genuinely curious,
But propelled mostly by dreams
Of hot, savory noodles,
Fresh pastries in new textures,
And all of the extravagance,
Novelty, and confusion
Of the next unfamiliar feast.

And me?
I'll be fine.
I'll go through waves of feeling everything
But I will always be fine.
Wearing Band-Aids around you,
Then running,
Running my mouth,
Running my eyes,
And getting high alone.

I need air,
I need earth,
I need water,
For each breath is shallow,
And my bra is too tight,
And on sudden occassions
My chest twangs
As a lumberjack sinks an axe into me
Taking me down for my
Precious Heartwood.

It comes in the morning, now -
That heavy vapor of gloom
That spreads like water-soaked ink
That stirs the gut to quiver.
Once a night traveler
Content to sit on my lungs
and whisper toxic reminders
of mortality,
This demon endemic to life
has taken a new schedule,
and with it, a new voice,
and new pairs of woes and clothes.
It reminds me, now,
of my world like molasses,
jolly people I have been,
and joy I've destroyed,
tempting me with a heart of ice
I could use to replace my own,
and make this song go away.
It is my job then, to refuse.
"No."
I must climb out of bed
And wield a sword of summer
For one more day.

Oh, red Mars,
So close in space and mind,
Your presence stirs a storm here,
As above you fall behind.
Oh, retrograding god,
You wage your wars in me,
My choices all are second-guessed,
Devoid of certainty.
Oh, oxidizing plains,
Hung high in glowing sight,
You're far from the abrasive truths,
That I must face tonight.

Can't you see?
That this evening's drama
is all just tangled language
made swollen by repetitive prodding,
and that none of this is real?
I am too tired to argue,
Too burnt-out to share,
Too triggered to touch you,
And too blasé to care.

Like treading water
Like waking from dreams
to find the day hazy and surreal
Like the inability to stem
the begging hunger
that threatens to rend
polite tasks asunder
Is waiting to return
to the mountains
and real life
with you.

Most mornings, my first waking thought is:, ”Life is the best gift anyone has ever received,
surpassed only by consciousness and freedom.”

When this happens, it’s impossible to leave
without first setting a plan to pursue
the sparks that ignite my ephemeral flame.
I want to leap with abandon, 
fill the day with never-befores, 
and share every last thing in my head.

But the long days have ways of reminding me
that I am a player
in the less existential realities of others.
That I chase fruitless romantic dreams.
That I am not truly free.
That if I don’t slow,
I will destroy every structure
that scaffolds my sturdy life.

But is it worth the fall?
I’m afraid that I might truly think it is.
When I feel that shine -
when I have that glimmer in reach -
when I’m intoxicated with the scent and the buzz -
when I begin to glow -
I really do.

But of course, I could be wrong.
And maybe my freedom is like a religion.
It feels real to me,
but all evidence points toward the contrary.

There are moments that wake you up
That knock you squarely
from what once passed as reality
into a new frame of being.

These are the moments,
When the Milky Way
snaps into perfect clarity,
When a breeze off a creek
whispers the cyclical secrets of its past,
When perfect music or perfect silence
replaces the voices in your ears,
When your hand is held with care
and you're electrically grounded,
When you're suddenly in existential peace
with all of your fears.

These are momentary lapses in the definite -
Brief flashes of eternal significance
in the obvious meaninglessness of life.
Moments that transcend the inevitability of death.
A reason for existing in a reasonless existence.

Like a new leaf
Turned over,
And blooming in spring,
Some days
I'll grow
With the light.
But all new leaves
Require rain to grow,
So some days
Will pour
I know.
And when storms break
And I'm fighting
In the dark,
Feeling like I did
In the fall,
I'll shake,
Draw a breath,
Take a sip,
Find a spark,
And give thanks
That I'm growing
At all.

"I'm a synesthete," I said.
"The neurons lay close in my head.
I'm always mixing stimuli,
For example, letter 'A' is red.
For me, everything's got to be
In color, value, shade, and hue.
Sounds, tastes, names, words,
feelings, memories, people, you."

"Me?" he asked, so curiously,
(I knew the question held in store)
"What color do you think I'd be?"
(A question I've been asked before)
And though I've always answered true
And never been shy to reveal
A lavender, or slate, or blue
This time, I pause before I spill...

"You are the world in the golden hour.
Glittering, gleaming, and perfectly grand.
You are a paintbrush on every flower
Sweeping out across the land."

"You are a hillside dripping in honey,
Drenched in sweet, auriferous splendor.
I'm not sure how - but it's so funny -
You're the best iteration of every color."

"You're orange and red; an unwavering light,
Your name is a hopeful, amber belief,
You're apex of day, pinnacle of sight,
And my time in your glow is always too brief"

"Then, with the twilight's parting streams,
You are periwinkle memory.
Until you're the moon's reflective beams -
The pearlescent silver of my dreams."

And with a pang I realize,
That I should not have chattered such,
For anyone with ears or eyes
Can tell that I've revealed too much.

It's the fourteen-minute, fifty-two-second
Electric Ladyland ultra-slow cut
Of Jimi Hendrix's Voodoo Chile,
And with each hot, languid, aching riff,
My lips
Press and Praise,
Taste and Tease,
Catch and Release,
Wildly and methodically
Covering every square inch
Of your jawline,
earlobe,
collarbone,
and down.
The mesmerizing jangle
of electric rock *****
Chains us,
Entrances us,
Drugs us,
Leads us,
And there is nothing in this world
But your scent,
my lips,
your shiver,
my breath,
and our hands.
I swear, the moon turns a fire red,
And we're a pitched electric flame.
Play that song and tell me
That you can't imagine the same.

In a daydream
You kissed me.
It was clumsy,
But measured.
Slow,
But thoughtful.
A gamble
To be mulled over.

In a night dream
You kissed me.
It was intentional,
And passionate.
Sudden,
And enveloping.
A fire
Coursing with the unspoken.

In a daydream
We are playful and cautious,
Determined to make it work.
In a night dream
We burn right up
Until there's nothing left.
And when I wake from either
I must calm my hopeful heart,
And hold dreams and reality
In places far apart.