how sweet the dark which hides me;
the brine that filters through;
the softness of the sand.

I cling - am singing - bivalve songs
my gills alight with blood.
hanging by a byssal thread in wait,
for what? indeed.

nutrition filters through my shell
- the tastes of distant loves -
I hunker down, secreting possibilities
that I can not see, of distant dreams.

the universe within my nerves expands,
too vast to be contained.
it explodes beyond myself;
no mantle can frame it.

it flows from me - this longing.
a remembrance of moments,
of chemicals in current.

every tear a life unlived.
each drop a thought potential.

the tides within establish norms which permeate
- instigate -
the turnings of this realm,
bringing forth the hardened form of signals I've rebound:

"I'm here! Hello?"
"Me too, me too!"
we echo through the seas,
anticipating textures on the tides.

our swirling minds reflect within,
entombing us with times.
we live inside our memories.

no past, no future, it all is now,
now, and now, and all around:
it's all we see.
and then...

we live again,
mirrored by the things we've grown around us.
from birth. through life.
we scrape, then die again, again.

all at once and forever, we thrive and fall,
encapsulated in our hemispheres which turn
and twist
and spin.

a spiral forms;
projects the pattern of our dreams without.
each sensation painted in the layers we wear
until it shines.
and see how it shines!

the pales and pinks and silvers shift,
revolve within themselves to show
our deepest fears
our brightest joys
as rainbows, smooth and silken.

if they could only know the truth:
that our beauty's accidental;
coincidental.
that we would shed our skins to swim,
settle quick into the plains
aside our lovers sending signals with the swell.

but now, we wait.
for what? indeed.
blind, deaf, locked away.

here, at the bottom of the world
I drift again through images of being.
I can not say which have gone,
which have not yet come.

another turn in the spiral is cast
- another layer hardens -
and I remain,
clench my shell and think:
how sweet the dark.

I try to choose kindness
I try to take deep
breaths
and let my anger wash out

But, my there are wasps in
my brain

there is a buzzing
hot
hot
heat
settled where my neck and head
meet

I swim laps in the pool
I walk the road and back
I hope that maybe I will
make it back
kinder

I walk foot trails with
my son
the leaves casting dappled light on his gold-spun hair
I feel my chest break at the sight
He is so kind but he is mine
will he feel this buzzing

will it lead him to break every day
I try to quiet my voice so
he doesn't learn
to yell

but I never learned quiet.
I am teaching myself. I am learning
He is patient with me
that is not his job

I see the sun on his hair
He jumps on my back in the pool
he giggles and wails
love incarnate

I think I will remember these times most
I will feel nostalgia bathed in dappled gold
when my bones are brittle and old
when I have finally learned
to quiet the buzzing

but will it be too late
will his giggles cease
will his small hands turn into fists
will he become me

I am teaching myself. I am learning.
I hope he is learning too
I hope he is seeing me try, seeing me take deep breaths
seeing me scramble for kindness
kindness!
I thrash against these angry chains and I hope he knows

but
I watched my father thrash his whole life
It is how I knew to try
I still carry his anger in me like
like wasps in my brain

I choose kindness
I take deep breathes
I swim laps and walk trails
I hope that kindness will
chose me back

Metamorphosis from the start of the day,
January’s promises,
had so much to say.

The beginning of the cycle,
to the end of the new.
The remnant of the spring morning dew
moves summer breeze
into leaves of a green hue,
and the Heartache of July.

The sun rose and set with You,
until it rained
and the skies once again turned a somber shade of familiar blue.

Metamorphosis of the self,
turning like a snake.
Shedding the skin of heartache and
remaking myself, again.

Metamorphosis I bloom and break,
I wither and wake
through the hardships of the year,
taking a new found shape
of me-

The moon wanes and waxes,
while the heart mends and sax’s
continue to play sweet melodies from the month of May,
and we are reminded of the day
that breaks and dawns.

The body yawns
from the weight of the year.

Yet still, the metamorphosis blooms and births
a new beacon of light,
preparing herself for the thirty-first night
and the turn of the calendar, again.

they say the lone wolf dies
yet the pack survives.
it is the strength of a whole and it solely that can mend for sturdy fangs and foreign bites
of ill-fated violence.
regrettable.

and although they say the pack survives, what is of the lone wolf?
is he fated to be swallowed whole by the jaws of his most trustworthy companions?
to be crucified as a slave and mistreated as a martyr?

they say the lone wolf dies
and his carcass serves as a reminder of what can be forgotten so easily
through the years he can be no more
and the pack will be, still

they say the pack survives upon the feeble shoulders of the lone wolf
feeding its ego and stomach
praying for another to idolize like the most precious of waste.
after one comes another
and time does not make saints out of victims
nor does the pack which thrives and feasts and tears limb to limb deities and sinners alike.

cruelty is no stranger to the pack
it is a principle to build community upon
and everyone relishes being the predator
until they too are made into the prey.

nobody ever remembers the lone wolf
nor do they remember whom he was before crucifixion
what they do remember is to never be pushed into such a place

the struggle never ends
and when another falls into their godless clutches
you'll thrive and feast and rejoice
and find yourself thinking
at least it’s not me

As golden leaves fall gently down
From treetops in the sky
They scatter ‘cross the golden ground
When Autumn breezes fly

These tiny leaves don’t realize
The power that they hold
To nurture growth that will arise
As they decay and mould

Relax and let the ebbs and flows
Of seasons cycle round
For that’s the way abundance grows
When leaves fall to the ground