There was once
A pretty little house
And it had many occupants
But a couple of them here or there
Stripped the pretty
little house bare

So what was once
A pretty little house
was remodeled as a bunker
and on this bunker they built a tower
with its entrance at the top

The further you get to the bottom
the more you see it's appeal
the further you go from your exit
the closer you get to a soul

that once lived in a pretty little house

Si fueras tú un árbol,
Quisiera ser el leñador
Quisiera un alma de valor,
Quisiera un hacha de mármol.

Quisiera poder pasar
Mi mano por tu coraza
Y si más no se desplaza,
Tumbarte horizontal.

Quisiera hacer un hogar
De tu torso de madera,
Y en tu pecho, si se abriera,
Una cuna de anidar,

Quiero dormir sobre tu pelo,
Bajo tus ojos de ventana,
Y despertar cada mañana
Besando los pies de tu suelo.

Si fueras para mí,
Tus semillas guardaría
Y en la noche sembraría
Todo un bosque de ti.

creation builds houses...
brick after brick,
and
she works hard in the face of adversity.

creation builds a house,
and i build a home,
for tiny children... but i cannot keep them
warm.

you don’t believe me, when
i say that
things are not well... but when
have you ever had an answer,
anyway?

all blank-faced, and
angry...

i guess...
i was meant to be alone,
because
creation means building a house.
and
being someone means keeping it
warm.

i do this thing
where i let people
make their homes
in the midst of my words.

they are cordially invited
to bring their joys into my home,
(sorrows optional, if you do not
have sorrows of your own,
some will be provided to you)
i am always excited
to have new inhabitants living
in electronic pages of my memory,
if only for a night.

i love it when i know
the weight of a soul
just enough
to set it down gently,
surrounded by literary furniture
so it feels at home.
i love to watch from afar,
patiently,
while these people
find their bearings
in the monstrous maze
that is my poetry.
they get lost sometimes -
in mixed messages,
messy metaphors,
silly sentences,
violent verses.
I am in awe of how gently
they can navigate my mind
and come to rest
in a corner that they make
for themselves,
and no one else.

i do this thing
where i let people
make their homes
in the midst of my words -
a small colony,
a peaceful civilization -
with the occasional war,
a rare skirmish.

their homes have windows,
and on most days,
i don't mind
letting the world have a peek.

Good heavens!
Good Thursday on a Tuesday?
On a week of Good Friday?
But whatever!
The sun has set, Today is here.
We have eaten, and are ready to go.
Shoes on our feet,
House on our backs;
We have no bread, but thats OK.
We are ready to go.

Snowy ground
Lies untouched
Perfectly perfect
Made for us

Out the widow
Snow falls
Fire burning
Widows fog

Red nosed
In the house
Rosy cheeks
On the couch

Curled up
In a sweater
“How are you?”
“Never better,”