Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just tow me an inch, no--
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.

That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter--
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chisled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,
But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.

And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I was was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.

Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.

Let me tell you a story.

When I was young, I was convinced one of two things would happen:
I would either die young or I would live ignorant.
And I was allowed to believe it.
I was careful, avoiding snakes, spiders, dirt, human beings, love.
I horded books, enough to give myself a doctorate in any field.
And I was called paranoid. Idiotic. A fool. Freak. Doomed.
But, I kept living anyway. Destroyed, most of the strings in me cut.
But living. And I was allowed to believe it was a gift.

Of course, this is a fiction, lie, metaphor, but the truth stands.
Children are not born to be afraid. They are taught.
Fear is conditioned. Rewarded. Considered a virtue.
The wildness of youth is tromped upon by cleat-clad "caution."
Gone are bright eyes, reckless smiles, heads thrown back. Life.
Dull glances, insurance, cul-de-sacs, and bitten tongues reign. Fear.
And fear is one of the deepest scars we can inflict upon another.

This story is not mine, though I have been the one to tell it.
But I am human. An ocean. A fault line. A candle facing a storm.
This tale, in some chisled fascet, mirrors my own.
And it will continue as long as I draw breath.

Thick heavy smoke rises
From chisled scars
Embers spark with skin flakes
Into toxic smog

Deep inhale, chokes lungs
Burning misfortunes churn
Red eyes swallow
The cloudy inferno

Golden windows to the soul
In the wake of consumption
Ashen flesh molded
Crucible sculpted perfection

I want to be wrapped in soft shades
      of shimmering blue
celestial greens
deep, dark violet hues
I want to be
       held firm and steadied
yet rocked by chisled grace
I want my inner light
     to flow right over,
beaming all over the place
I want to be strummed
until
the tunes reach ethereal notes
      crescendo or staccato
whatever makes time float
I want magic in my palms
       as I cup your gentle face
I want to get electric
inside your firm embrace
      I  want to feel *******
when your eyes are on my soul
I want to feel that tension
build up and juice my flow
Yes.
      I am ready for connection
ready for oceans to break down walls
No longer afraid of waiting
Bring it on!
     I want it all

Moments of desperation make days of vulnerability
"Tell me I'm pretty"
"Don't I look cute in my dress?"
Look at me.
I look so **** fine and nobody's jaws are on the ground.
My eyes are gorgeous right now
my hair like silk
so why aren't you eye-******* my brains out?
When you get in this state
after disappointment and having your ribcage bashed with a wrecking ball
you want attention
and you hate it.
You hate the self-centered need for compliments
you want chisled men with rippling six-packs
to compliment the curvature of your collarbone
but what?
Nope
not even the skeezes pay a bit of attention
(probably for the best)
because they can smell the instability.
They know underneath that revealing top
is a blubbering girl dying for some double-chocolate icecream and a Ryan  Gosling flick
over and over
"If you're a bird, I'm a bird"
"I want you. Forever and always."
Silent and strong
sweet and sturly
just cuddle me and pay me compliments like a little sweet slave
don't be *****
just tell me my cheek bones are sculpted and my lashes are lush
and my side bends are really making a difference.
Shallow little pick -me- ups,
vocal vicodin
just gimme some nice narcotic attention
so I can stop obsessing
about how lame I was,
how close,
and how he still chose her.

So it seems
morning light
comes softly
after rain
floating over thorns
and spikes
of pain
chisled metals
come to be
softly brushed
bristles
of silken needles
sharpened thistles
and I can release
my balloon heart
a bit up
to skies
and let the cool
air kiss its
surface quiet
In the daylight
At least clouds
do not always
burst from
layered peaks
at least
tears
do not push
one over rough
and common edges
at least whispers
haunt in a space
more softly,
kindly
expanding back
the walls
of a vision once
limited

The full moon
looks down upon
the lonely hearted,
casting its glow
upon chisled-faces,
cheeks
covered
with streams
of dried tears,
fearful of the morning.

And when the warmth
of the bright star appears,
we lie hidden still,
silently waiting
for the return of night,
when moonglow carresses
us into our lost dreams
& we write of pain,
comforted,
yet again.

I saw it all
and graced every moment,
There they all were,
Scattered across Gregorian isles,
The beauties beyond the bridge,
holding and caressing the sun-
drenched pavement,
Beset on all corners flesh of the-
purest sort,
The cackling ruffians in the parks,
conspicuous cigarettes barely holding
steady,
The yawn-screaming maintenance man,
in the back of the depot,
making faces at passersby.
The didwives walk swiftly,
buckling dirt under their scoured
limbs,
The fresh smell of the river,
with precarious logs that never
fall over,
The faces chisled in the walls,
Men whose catacombs belong,
Personally under the floor boards,
I met the modern day black-
smiths,
greased, and happy golden-red,
Behind, stuck in the surreal
rut,
Happily tailing and fireworking
as tickets fly in,
A walk home revealed all,
footsteps graced every patch,
Each one of comical saints,
tying invisible lines of
alternate reality.


"Excuse me,
I just wanted to say,
You look beautiful today."

She was a free spirit, held captive by the road.
He was a wandering soul, longing for a home.

She had sunlight for hair and the sky in her eyes,
His smile was a fire on a warm summer’s night

She was made of marble, beautiful and tough
He was chisled in the rock which made him strong and rough

They were two sides of the same silver coin
Two parallel lines destined never to join.

She was a free spirit, he was a wandering soul
Similarly different pieces, longing to be whole.

6/2/18

58,000 names
Chisled into black granite walls.
The hallowed ground in front of
This sacred, special place
Has seen roses, rings & letters,
Wreaths, money, trinkets.
It has been watered with tears of love,
Of grief, of pain.
A wilderness of emotion and memory
Is tied to the smooth dark stone.
Name after name,
Row after row,
Slab after slab,
Wall after wall.
Behind each etched name
There is a story of bravery,
Of courage, of hope;
But at the same time
You can read the grusome headlines
Of the unfeeling papers.
You can see the blood and the smoke,
The eyes of comrades
Glazed over in passing.
You can hear the gunshots,
The agonized screams of the doomed.
Is this a place of life?
A place of death?
A place of worship?
A place of pain? Of sorrow?
A place of memory?
A place of love?

The first newspapers had to be chisled out by hand
with a chisle and mallet.  Not exactly the fine print
we get today.  And if the chisle-er made a mistake,
then that piece of stone would have to be reprossessed.
This would cause a delay in production and delivery.
Another drawback was that those stones were
heavy.  And no matter how greased your cartwheels,
the donkey could only pull so much weight.  However,
if you were lucky enough to get a copy of The Evening
Stone, (at the price of only three dracmas per slab) you
would have a piece of news that could literally last
longer than a lifetime.  (pardon the alliteration)

                                                The End

I remember the day I met him, skinny body and blad head,
Unusual walk and words with disordered pauses that led,
I remember looking at the sky and complaining, "why'd you do this to him?"
I saw him absurdly smile at me and my eyes were filled with tears up to the rim,
It was hard to look into his innocent eyes, they reminded how gifted I was,
I consoled myself by reasoning that maybe it is karma and that unvierse has its laws,
But then I saw him yesterday encircled by hundreds of people, begging for mercy,
Most of the people beating him, were just showing off their courtesy,
Collectively they pleasured the sadistic joy to watch him helplessly quaver in pain,
Everybody stood anchored hearing his cries while they turned his body into grains,
My body was shaking and palms sweating, I couldn't watch him bleeding,
But like a coward I stood there, waiting for those hungry wolves to stop feeding,
My heart dwindled to a state of non existence seeing the tears in his father's eyes,
I know he was wrong when he touched that eight year old girl between her thighs,
His mother shouldn't have told him to run away and nuture all the lies,
But one chance is all he asked for, when his feeble gaze chisled my eyes.

I wouldn't have asked for a better space, a better time, and a better place
These words were made to create
These rhythms were chisled on cement slates
I am free, because my eye is open
I am flying with my mind,
Because my Spirit is golden- Flames
Designed to burn
I have earned everything I understand
Holding hands, and making plans
A future worth living for is coming
Being created, programmed, and running- Fast
The speed of light is invisible
Give intuition a chance- Dance
Be wild
Greet the ones you love, and those you meet along the way with a smile
We are rich
I found the most expensive artifact buried under the soil
In the dirt
I mad a pouch with my shirt,
And carried it back home with me- Easily
I placed it in a space where I would see it every day
Inside my heart
Now, when I get lonely I know where to start
Which is how I got lost
I have a body, and that in itself costs
Breath, and let your heart keep beating
I will make this my mantra
For, myself I am keeping

Only you are more beautiful than you
Thousand flowers can't beat your bloom
You are a mystifying marvel soft as down
An awakening airing the gift of dawn
Gods must have been high or highly fine
To fashion something incredibly divine.

With lips of rosy gold and emerald eyes
With dusky hair and shapely eyebrows
With sonsy face and alabaster skin
With chisled nose and voice of serene
You are the lone star in the sky of mortals
Shining with fantastic materials
Your flaming aura captures vanity
Topping the height of urbanity.

You are a work of humanizing art
That keeps your mind open
And enriches your heart
Your spirit wanders like the breeze
Spreading the wonders of your kiss
They would lay silver, gold
And diamond at your feet
To inhale the fragrance of your heat.

When twilight settles and shadows rise
To assail the magic of your eyes
Your guardian dragon spews ancient fires
Extinguishing all iniquitous desires
For you are the epitome of natural glory
Portraying Love's genuine story.