I will probably stand you up on end,
the way hair rises for
electricity
uprighted, sure,
though not exactly how it’s supposed to be
I’ll play the current
and you won’t be what you were,
or at least always have been

And whether that changing
and charging between us
is right or wrong
is up for interpretation.

And speaking of interpretations,
you could wind up trying to read my signs
even though they won’t be signs,
unless I make them signs...
like warning signs,
or danger signs,
or maybe the kind of signs on old road posts,
weathered and worn,
and illegible

or maybe the kind of picket signs
that tells you all the ways
from which you can leisurely choose
on some sun dusted road
with your options spread at your eyes
and your feet
and hopefully, your heart
and you could choose whichever direction
that you think you know you want

And my words will most likely make you strain to hear,
though it may be a song you don’t understand,
like those of birds flying together distantly,
whom no matter how you concentrate,
are still a different species,
singing a foreign tongue,
who make you feel
and make you know
with a sadness or determination or both,
that until a melody is made solely for you,
you will always just be dropping eaves

And speaking of dropping,
I could cause a loosened grasp on things
the things you can touch,
and the things you can’t
and the things I can’t
will all be forgotten,
dwarfed,
at least, seconded
by my growing presence in your mind
you might imagine me as an Alice
oh my poor, shrinking wonderland
you didn’t stand a chance.


And it’s possible those things,
you know,
the ones that you let drop,
will clatter to the ground,
from your forgetful, or, unconcerned fingers,
and when they are grounded,
discarded,
leveled,
lowered to my toes,
that I may see a higher view

But, perhaps, just maybe
you’ll find that,
though they fell,
though you let them fall,
that I didn’t let them b r e a k

perhaps you’ll see I will have made for them a haven,
cushioning, cradling and made up of only the softest matter,
six thousand thread count kind of stuff,
likefeather down,
eyelashed cheeks,
inner cloud,
your words,
and my kisses


And when you finally come down from my initial high,
it’s probable that you’ll be so dazed
and dizzied
that you must look at your feet
to make sure that you are still standing
and that is when you will see
that in the moments when you forgot
the importance of your things, that I
did not
And I could not let them
clatter, shatter, smash
and that though they dropped,
because of me,
they are still intact
because of me

and when you see your things,
ones you loved but forgot you loved,
that they are all
unbroken,
is when you will know you can love me
wholly

There is nothing as free and passionate as your first time
Nothing as innocent
The nervous giggles
The panicked breathing
Touching someone's body
Just to learn every bump and crater
on the surface of their warm skin
The rush of pain
The desperate moans
Nothing as intimate as your first time.

I met a traveller, from the only land she had ever known,
she was a spring of joy to me with many far away steps along her path.
With such old eyes, that set like stone, so afraid of her own wrath.

Such a beautiful daisy in a field of burnt grass,
yet her stone eyes were fixed on the dead,
devoid of her own beauty, without glass.
Oh darling, there is light ahead.

I was the charred grass around her,
yet our meeting was so delayed.
till the thunder rolled and rain slashed did she stir,
and the traveller need not be afraid.

The forgotten grass soon turned to clean dirt,
oh my sister, I wont let you hurt.

dreams of drowning
but not in water, necessarily
locked in rooms that look familiar
though not recognizable
locked doorknobs with missing locks
and my name being called from the other side
repeating mundane tasks
to the point of insanity
"what's the point of everything?"
dreams of you hurting people in front of me
and while i watch, i say,
"it's okay. i understand."

6am  
watching the sky turn rose and yellow
On silverlake mountain
Resting against soft cotton
That cradled me all night
High above the stirring city
one two three
Enormous crystal windows
On the opposite wall
Side by side
The bedroom
Flooded with light and color
Like Heaven asked to be invited in
The last licks of fire in the hearth
the wood crackling sleepily
The smell of coffee brewing in the little kitchen
And knotty pine outside in the forest
The warm spray of the shower
And I can’t resist
Crawling back into bed for a few moments
The cotton slipcover so smooth against my still damp skin
Remembering the night of candlelight
and soft music
breathless
as the sun engulfs me
through the picture windows
and whispers that
the day will only wait so long
goodbye cotton sheets
you are silk to me
and I will dream of you until we meet again.