metaphors are
rubber bands
we may extend them
as much as we like
we may shoot them
at our classmates
we may impress
our professors
with the shapes
we can contort
them into
but the more
we extend them
the more we
wear them out
and its very possible
that with all of our
stretching and extending
we could render
our metaphors
useless
*snap

the dawn collapses sometimes under its own weight while
worlds of gestures are well preserved under the eyelids,
hardly random grammars, addiction to illusions,
the space of grace, the space for violence misued
muted tempos in the fragility of thoughts
we know many words but not the right language to talk to each other,
the vocabulary of hurt exploded inside narrow spaces,  the temple of skin empty
recycle bins full of our selves
we confuse the world with the contours of our pain

untitled the day sometimes
when love has left behind the birth of language

and in our battle of words,
yours succeeded to wade its meaning straight across
and with a solid one at most,
i have once again been rendered lost

We've all had turns throwing words off board:
a certain few drift some two shifts of blue
before swiftly sinking out of their own accord.
Others yet lift themselves in further pursuit
of barren waterways yet to be oared.
But a tiny handful have yet to continue
their ongoing flight to the edges of the world...
And still most words end up sunken--
as nothing more but lost conversations.

my winter eyes are epic
emptied of the seduction
of never dying days
for now
but
still looking for an incantation:
this field this wave this sway
this maze this daze
the soul's substance
untranslatable
allusive
perfumed

some find it in the dark recesses
some insist it doesnt't exist
I contemplate blankness inside
my skin
my mind just a dream catcher
for illusions
a suspended note
an erasable tape
a network for the delicate architecture of moss
or was it mold?
some words have no heart at all
and we need canyons of tenderness, paths of joy
is it time that is dripping its imagination
in this turmoil?

the irrationality of mornings of violins of drums
strikes a chord inside
what is the basis of harmony?
so many shapes of wonder
on bridges, shores, sidewalks and hills
and valleys of the unknown
full of space atoms

a spirit of a shaman sits beside me
she calls me soul surfer
perhaps
god is
part violence
part beauty
part wonder
and I fall for it
when I find it
in the flesh
of the heart
only