a kaleidoscopic version of me, twisted and shook
to look like broken stained-glass.
really just beads in a toy
lined with mirrors.

beautiful words- less so
once I catch them
tangled in a thread of thought
hooked on Cupid’s bow
dragged back by reluctance
until they drown

The ache
The tearing in my stomach
The yearning for something that isn't food
Not food for thought
But something that fills me up
Thick raindrops that sink beneath your skin and into your bones
Being soaked all the way through into your heart
Feeling that electricity that nobody else can spark
The weight of water on your face
Pricking your eyes
and running its way down your hair
All of it
All that love and mystery and deepness
that's being in love with being alive

Sure the stars are pretty
But
Look
At
The
Night.
The deep blackness of the never-ending pit that is sky
The entirety of its beauty
You expect the night to frame the stars delicately
But if I were the night sky
I'd swallow them whole

Give me a love for living
And I shall make myself whole
There will be no more more broken pieces
Only chips
Only cracks
But that does not make me any less whole
For a window that is cracked is still a window

Us as cracked pots,
with a possibility to be fixed
as fine and flawed

The geology of our clay:
dirt will behave as dirt,
rare earth as rare earth

With time it transmutes
to something new,
shot with old veins when fired

The new *** fragile,
prone to drops and knocks,
desperate to hold known water

Starving for a lost knowledge,
Invisible to those with privilege,
Wanting support, needing a hand up,
Need a balance for my core, without looking for handouts.
Need acceptance, in a world where I face rejection.
Wanting knowledge to use as a weapon against discrimination.

I thought Van Gogh had it figured out
he fell in love
and cut off his ear
he died july 29 1890 from a self inflicted gun shot wound
He painted
He painted the sky
He painted men women bedrooms flowers shoes street corners chairs boats and fields

I thought Basquiat had it figured out
******
NYC
He painted memories in the present
August 12 1988
NYC apartment ****** overdose

I thought Picasso
I thought Warhol
I thought Stalin
******
Buddha
Had it figured out

but sand fills our shoes in dry texan sun
and the dog howls
howls for its mother
howls for its brother
howls for its sister

I thought the dog had it figured out
eating insects
smelling my hands
eating the ham on the floor

I thought Hemingway had it figured out
Late at night
reading Old Man and The Sea
Suicide July 2 1961
12-gauge English shotgun

I thought Fitzgerald had it figured out
I thought Ginsberg
I thought Kerouac did too
drinking across the neck and back bone and gutter lips of America and back

I thought Bukowski had it figured out
the cigarettes
the wine
the women
the type writer
the sad nights accompanied by cockroaches and a city that is indigestible

I thought Phillip Glass had it figured out
Beethoven
going Def
Mozart lost in his grave
writing symphonies for Death and his cruel tripled eyed angels

I thought
The drunkards were lost
The Junkies were ankle-less
The Mothers were done for
The Fathers had given in
The Young
True
The Elderly
gazing  through the bifocals of heaven and hell
The Prisoners cemented in Time
I thought the Dead
were the ones who published our Dreams

I thought the painter
had it figured out

So I painted

I thought the pianist
had it figured out

So I played the Piano
and listened to the bilingual codes of the keys

I thought the Ballet dancer
had it figured out

So I watched her
I studied the movements
and the bruised toes
looking for a design of an answer

I thought the Poet
had it figured out

So I wrote a poem
and I saw the world.