I want to be the forest and You to be the fire. I want every part of me to be completely consumed, no matter how large or how small it appears to be. I want to be a medium, through which You can be manifest. I want the combination of my substance and your catalysis to create a beautiful, powerful expression. I want our interaction to be unavoidably apparent to anything that can see, smell, taste, hear, or feel. I want all of my inhibitions to become meaningless in the face of your awesomeness. I want to be unable to become distracted from, or bored of You; because we are one inseparable entity.

Even when everything about me that I used to think made me who I was has been reduced to ash, I know that it will only enrich the parts of me which remain. The decomposition of the unnecessary will lead to the fertilization of the valuable. For a time, where a seemingly great forest once stood, there will be nothing but a flat field; but the result will be an amazing collection of new life to take its place. Where the forest seemed to be stagnant and immovable, instead there will be a growing, changing, expanding and thriving ecosystem. I will be what I was meant to be, but the glory of the creation will be yours for you were the inspiration and the force behind the result.

This is the kind of love I want to experience. The kind of love I want to be able to show others. Undoubting, fearless, passionate, enduring, complete.

with a black sharpie smile
and two scissor holes
my brown paper bag face
lets me walk out the door
and interact with you
its safer in here
my brown paper bag face

teetering on the edge
of empathy and indifference
i attempt to cradle
my concept of humankind, giving it
sips of water and bites of fruit -- i
want to believe
we are all
more capable than we seem;
our output needs to surpass our ambition
to "do good", for practice
will surely steer
a gilded
and inevitable (im)perfection.

the weight of a hand
resting in yours
the resistance to the touch of a single finger
upon another
the sizzle of a thousand hairs between fingertips
the dampness of breath upon your cheek
the redness of pair of lips
...or of a blushing forehead
...or of cheekbones under droplets of perspiration

the silence of an empty room
the sense of someone close
...who is a thousand miles away
...and thinking of you

The greeting is the same
the minutia is the difference
Point A and Point B
are always constant

Like a craftsman with
his toolkit and techniques
nothing is out of sync
with expectations

It's not a game any longer
it has become a chore
motions to go through.
Ten minutes in....

You....you threw in a wrench
into my machinations of
dialogue and movement.

You....you don't bore me.
It's a game once again,
and we both intend to win.

Let's play

Don’t just hear, listen
Don’t just see, analyze

It’s urging me to listen
Which means grasp what someone is saying and understand the underlying meaning

And to comprehend instead of only seeing a person speaking at me

Two performers debating on a quirky time capsule stage

Evaporating the barriers of time with their improv

As the spectators breathe life into their routine with no turmoil

In this city, every morning begins with a Siren
one bright and brilliant Eastern Awakening
that doesn't carry with it a threat
to sing us lovingly to some romantically unknown demise.

Yet we've forgotten that our ears aren't the only part
of ourselves capable of hearing & we've forgotten
of how our eyes read each others long before language
could be taught with structure.

So we lay in bed and await
the cheaper sirens of bad news or an alarm
to superficially awake us and send us off to tally
another day towards death.

I overhear people in the bustle speak of life
as if it were paused in the present, so I buy my
black coffee and when you don't hear me say thank-you
its because you never looked up.