There’s a dream at night, of me floating up in thin heights
with clouds trying far too hard to catch up.  
This dream is sad, it hovers on horizons  
Because I’m grounded for now, my wings haven’t come yet.  
They’re lost in the mail, and I don’t have courage to hunt them.  

You see I’m scared of up there,
the density of air seems to fall short of supporting
my heavy disposition.  
My skin is fair and it may go right past crispy
with less atmosphere between me and the glowing bright.  

The twin orbs above my dream-self rotate in and out
but there’s a shared look of hate on their beautiful faces.  
They don’t want me here, this sky is their front yard.  
They’ve posted a sign “No Solicitors Allowed”
but I’m selling my dream, this heart to the highest bidder
to find my flight, my cowardly departure.  

The sun is mad, ******* at his potential neighbor, a smaller sort,
sun is tired of sister moon taking so much room.  
Perhaps life without the cold ashen face of her sibling would improve.  
This works for me, as I said at the beginning this is a dream at night,
one that just may be fulfilling if I decide to fly, if my wings arrive,
but I’m still so scared of the heights.

I wish I were six again
if only to beg and plead
my mother to read me a story before bed.  

I could read on my own when I was six,
but I just wanted to hear another voice say
goodnight
to everything in the little bunny’s room.
I found it funny when my mother said
goodnight to the moon,
and the mush,
and the red balloon.  
It was soothing, relaxing after a long day,
however exhausting a day
in the life of a
six-year-old can be.
I would be on the bottom,
my brother on the bunk above me.  
Mom would stand by the ladder,
using it as a book rest.  
Or we would sit on the floor with her between us,
looking at the pictures as she read.  
The green and orange of the room,
blue and white of the bunny and his pajamas,
the red of the balloon,
colors etched into our minds.

When I was thirteen
and finally moved into my own room,
I considered painting it green
out of respect and admiration
for the book
and now, when I walk at night,
I stare at the moon.

On a Monday I saw a very full moon.  
It looked larger than normal,
brighter too
and I noticed something in the moonlight.  
A painting, attached to some metal box
on the side of the road by liquid nails.
I don’t know why the painting meant anything to me.
It was simple,
a man drinking a cup of tea.  
He was old and haggard, grayed a bit.  
But there was a corner, a solid background.  
A wall behind the tea-drinking man,
bright red,
standing out from the rest of the image.  
I took the painting,
pried it off with the force of memory.
it hangs in my home,
that bright bit of red wall adding
a needed splash of color to
mundane rental property mauve.

Though I wish that splash were green.

Today is the birthday
of a love of my life.
Not 'the' (implying singular) because
love is never singular,
it takes two.

Today is the birthday of
a love through my life
who flies (implying graceful) stories from feathers,
who transforms planks of wood into
platforms and pulpits and potential.

Today his birthday, whose children are
the first romantic tragedy
the depths of a suffering soul
the honest daughter, punished
the honorable man, framed
the *** made out of the bottom
the poetry, carefully manipulated
from our once bare lonesome world.

Today is his birthday and his last day,
his life as circuitous as his shrine,
the citadel to his soul.
Today I celebrate and mourn him,
a love in my life since our first quiet encounter
in a bright second floor classroom.
I knew nothing of our tangled future
but this: he spoke, I listened and through the
tunnel of years between us the message stayed strong.

Today is his birth and death (not quite dead
but not alive) and I mourn for not knowing him
sooner or fuller and I celebrate
for knowing him still and yearning,
struggling to understand his children.

Bump bump bang bang
the world goes numb.
Numb from the cold.
Hearts aren't for love anymore,
just blood.
Blue blood like the rest of us,
we can't get enough oxygen to make it red.
The drugs do it for us now,
do everything.
We barely have to think,
we barely have to move.
Drugs do our jobs, we used to joke,
but our bodies are still there.
We just aren't sure where exactly
there
is. It seemed like yesterday we were alive--
we think.
We sort of remember warmth.
We sort of remember laughing.
We sort of remember nostalgia,
a memory for years past and
lessons learned from previous failures.
We remember once when a man
said he would do something and did it,
gratis,
out of the goodness of a loving heart.

Hearts aren't for love anymore.
Just blood that spills.
We see it all the time now.
We know what it looks like
dried and cracked,
stained on our clothes.
We don't run from blood anymore
because we understand that
soon
our blood will leave our hearts
and stain our carpet or street.
This does not scare us because
we understand it as inevitable.
We remember when death was frightening.
We remember when blood was uncommon.

We remember the sun.
Clouds, gray and bleak,
rain putrescence down every day
on the homes that used to be warm.
We sort of remember warmth.
We remember feeling
things,
any things.
Temperature, moisture, emotion.
Love.
We remember until the bump bump bang bang-

I love deeply, recklessly
Though internally.
Love never forced outward
Hidden, held, disguised.

Mask obscures the question
If there is no recipient
Can the feeling be true
Or is it just ethereal?

Floating spectral sunset
Apparition half manifested
Ghost of perhaps something
Unfinished, vague, grasping.