he stood at the precipice of the most beautiful sunset
breathed in the colors
                            ... and exhaled loneliness
inhaled THC
              ... and coughed out a single sigh

he had seen it before

but from a different angle altogether
over the hills of her body
the colors seemed more vivid
his senses more alive
against the soundtrack of her heartbeat
the cascade was more than just a view
it was a glimpse
                              of what life could be

this is all I can do to stop the words
the anticipation of something great
      or disappointing
I hope the former

my stomach is a pit
that deepens with each  l  o  o  s  e  breath
diaphragm creates space for love
and pain
unsure of which will last longer

I cannot see your face
but I can picture your desire
it is mirrored in my eyes
clears a home in my mouth
though unspoken

I want to part your lips and slip you a secret
   I want you more than my form can hold

can we melt together
is this too much to ask for the first time
if so              I can stop the words
   (their expression, at least
not their existence)

I’ve arrived again
in a place I used to know
I swear this laundromat is a portal
I’m in a wash cycle
wringing lessons free from my collar
how do I escape the rinse?

I wanna be clean
but this process feels so messy
not *****   -   but messy
share the heart, hide the hands
I am distorted and out of sorts
her eyes hold rebirth
if I could just die first
I wanna be clean

does purged love create space for more love?
why is release the first step to receipt?
is it?
gently deterred, no detergent
I am spinning on overload
strung out and stranded
                by choice
how do I escape this rinse?

I used to know
how to worship being alive
without bubbles
is it any wonder why
sometimes cycles feel like
perpetual spiraling
I haven’t even put any currency in
and it’s already starting again

what’s the cost of water?
I wanna be clean
but I don’t wanna pay

we are static on these channels
rushing to be heard
whipping through empty space like a fast current
         where are we flowing?
just trying to stay current
         what are we showing?
currently nothing
                         we are static
can you hear our unintelligible pleas
      please...
   listen
can you hear us
      rushing
we just want to be something
rushing
   can you hear us

listen
         listen
    listen to the static
we are more than just noise
hear us
                           please
we are changing

I found a portal in a dream
Slipped into a slit
Then came so fast
i lost track of singularity

Get quiet
         No, more quiet than that
Be small town back road
At 3am
Get still
         No, more still than that
Be tree that cuts through breeze
See change centuries away
But stop your trembling leaves
Let sap cry but don’t move to leave
Or brush away the tears
The world is healing
   And breaking at the same time

Get quiet
Enough to hear rifts under seas
Still
Enough to feel the shattering of cycles
The process through is not easy
Urges to relapse yell loudest
When siloed
Misery loves itself
Do you love yourself?



Don’t answer-
     Be quiet enough to hear the answer
Still enough to taste your fears
  And insecurities
Savor them before
Spitting out
Versions of you have                  -                must
Die to make way
Make a friend of grief
Hold its hand
And when you feel ready
     Move forward

She lays there a pregnant woman
the future a burden
kicking from the inside
    begging for its time
        pleading for fruition

hush now
                     I lullaby
you will come just like I came and my dad came and my grandfather came

                                   loud and after two minutes

she lays there a pregnant woman
and I swear
                      I can feel the future kicking
I am coming it echoes
...and so it was
    ...and so it did

Train Sets were always the coolest gift
I mean, I never got one
but that's what the movies say

now I ride trains daily
monotonous jumble of
commute.work.commute. sleep.

a ******
   brains get swallowed whole without my morning Joe
but there was a time...

...there was a time when
I rode that Polar Express to bliss
        crazed off hot chocolate
   golden ticket in hand

then
I slipped on ice caps
instead of sleeping on beaches
dreaming up Mad Hatter candy mogels

then
Tom Hank's voice was the patter of reindeer
and magic was cast by wizards
   not scientists

A White Beard
wise as Gandolf & Dumbledore
   specked with canyons of God
would laugh jolly into a nation
        into a season
   into that dusting galaxy of a child's eye

that beard
   holy and revered
would laugh humanity into a rattled world

slipping down chimneys
it would leave propaganda of hope
in the form of trainsets

No, I never got one
     but I loved that beard
        and the silver bells on its sleigh

they are voiceless now
but I keep them for their shine
I miss those days
                 ...sometimes...
I think about them on my train rides
wishing I had a different destination

who is to speak for the voiceless
     when their mutters make not a sound
who is to speak for the broken
     when their pieces cannot be found
Not I said the boy
     No one has spoken for me
so walking home
     he avoided cracked stone
          his eyes diverted down
and he saw no evil
     because he looked away
          until that very tragic day
               when it stood directly in his path
and he hadn't a clue what to do
he opened his mouth with a yelp
     but no one heard his cries
he was now the voiceless
     invisible to our eyes

my shadows warn of looming undercurrent
   it is already here
familiar shackles                        ankle-biting
     at old touch points
feet trudge
                      heavy
                              ­    then light
                      heavy
                               ­                       then light

I cut my strings 2 years ago                                (some of them)

                                                      the crown tips

shedding is continuous
heavy
            light
heavy
            light
heavy
­            light
                           I am learning to carry it well
to march
                 — in spite of burdens
                                                       /excess is a burden
                                                       /my burden is light

a forced dance at my feet
  I shuck and jive
   for a reticent forest
leaves applaud                        trees are unamused
                 — they’ve taught me better

                                                   stop running
                                                      plant in it
                                                    breathe it in
                                                              ­                  winter is   here

you can find reprieve in the burning of a candle
the flicker of wick
  pure animation of life

come and dance on these ponds with me
submerge yourself in scents unknown

have you ever bathed in lavender
come out dripping royalty

this, is the secret to passion:
dance in the wind
dance til the end
and when darkness comes
light another candle

to save a thread
            or cut it out
     or
           let
                  it
                       dwindle
the     natural      route

we bite off more than we can chew
                   gluttonous

nibbling on half truths
                               we’ve been fed
                                                  our whole lives

un.di.gest.ed thoughts are regurgitated
     in piecemeal

pass this down for me

we are more than we’ve ever imagined
stop plating the unpalatable
              and asking for seconds
throw that **** out
                                    it’s stale

On living:
each breath is an act of creation
can you imagine nothing without color
inhale white, exhale black
let all the in-betweens refract

On dying:
each breath is an act of destruction
can you imagine everything without color
inhale black, exhale white
let all the in-betweens detract

"Always we begin again." ~ St. Benedict

zero is the loneliest number
because it's empty
   -a hole for filling
but if you change your perspective
       the bottom can be the top

the first sign of growth
                      was a hair
     nothing impressive
    just a single strand
   breaking the surface
  in search of freedom
but that didn't stand for long

isolation gave way to conformity
as the grades came
    hair after hair
clumps         communities         culture
strands bowing under brush
parting        under        comb
hair can be tamed like anything else
duress, product and consistency
             wash   rinse   repeat
duress, product and consistency

never was one for riding waves
waved goodbye to that trend long ago
                                                             ­         grew past it
and figured nature knew best
knew how to sprout and flourish on its own
if left unattended

a bush was a phase                                             until it wasn't
shaved down to a surface
                                                     -fla­t-
something to sit atop and add flair
still couldn't much care
   guess I was a factor
but there was still no product

then society issued a dare
I double, triple dog dare you...
                                                          ­to be
and that was the impetus
because I have always been
  regardless of form
hair shed singularity
         knotted to bond
    condensed into a twist
          that bound memory and experience
                               into a journey of self-exploration

and I suppose the true journey started
long before I remember
  but palm rolls have traced lines to their origin
  roots below the surface recognized
  and left to their own design
twisters locked in dust   lent   dandruff
                         and core
all misjudged together
      how long can you go without censoring yourself?

I grew and grew and was and am and will be
         for 6 years 5 months and 18 days
         I was locked and loaded for self
zero was lifetimes ago
         ages prior to confidence
the mane does not make the lion
      but it certainly helps
I took a pilgrimage within a pilgrimage
made a metta meditation of movement
   before I knew love's true touch
                                                          a­nd then
            when head needed it the most
                                                            ­                                dread vanished
and made way for a universe

of all the memories created to forget
                 touch is the most lasting
the scalp is still anointed
from oil years past
                                                            ­   when scissors did meet
life shook with a force renewed
  and shed bare all that was needed

I was born with nothing
now ???  years ?? months and ? days later
I am yet again at zero
  but now, I know
it's not on me
                           it's in me