.

page one
it starts with the wave of a hand
a simple introduction
'hi, what's your name?'
it starts with looking and seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes and human
it starts with feeling no cliche butterflies in your stomach
and no additional voice in your head
amongst the others
and no rapid pulse in your still-beating heart

page two
somewhere along the way the waves turn into inside jokes and small smiles
crinkles by the corners of eyes
and light chuckles
and glancing just a millisecond too long

page three
and, well, glancing just a million times too often

page four
and you write poems in attempts to make yourself believe
to drown yourself in denial
to avoid confronting the - nonexistent - blooming bud growing
sprouting from all angled corners
and cracking curves
and jagged edges of you

page five
spoiler: it doesn't work

page six
and it's strange because apart from seeing what is there you see more
or really you don't see what is there
you see what you want to be there

page seven
you see skin and bones and beauty and freckles and stars and constellations in eyes and ethereal -

page eight
perfection

page nine
except perfection doesn't exist
and what you see doesn't exist
it's just your unrealistic expectations piled up from miles and smiles of movies and books and manga and everything

page nine
and you know this

page nine
but it goes into one ear and out the other

page nine
and it doesn't stop you from claiming

page nine
you're in love

page ten
if love is just infatuation with a physical manifestation of your ideals without their consent
then i guess you're right

page eleven
there are butterflies bending, banging on you, begging to be released

you wonder when your definition of beauty became a name and a face
and you wonder when love became synonymous to pain

page twelve
the butterflies turn into birds and then bears and then freaking buildings
except these building are moving and apparently earthquake proof because you can't seem to break them down
instead the buildings are breaking you down

but the truth is no, no they aren't
don't you see?
you're breaking yourself down

how do you heal if you are both the poison and the antidote?

page thirteen
if only you could rewrite the story
but how could you?
how do you rip the pages
how do you erase the sickeningly sweet
slow stabs slicing through your spine every time a smile is sent your way
how do you mute the thudding in your brain telling you that this could never be
how do you ignore the extra echoes in your head yelling at you to get yourself together

how do you get yourself together?

page fourteen
you've been asking so many questions lately
but you know the answer to all of them

page fifteen
there's a small voice
a minuscule, malevolent voice whispering maybe
whispering maybe and perhaps and potentially
maybe you're not the only one who wants to hold on just a little longer

page sixteen
but see
it's funny how the story starts with two people and now it's just one person with an overactive imagination
illustrating a person as something more
something better

page seventeen
but you're not creative enough to keep your illusion for too long
and soon you start to see less of what you want to be there and more of what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and human

human

page eighteen
human is ugly and human is cruel and human is wretched
but human is somewhat
beautiful
in its ugliness
and human is raw in all its dishonestly
and human is real
even if you made it out not to be

page nineteen
you will never truly now human
you will never truly know anyone or anything that isn't a figment of your imagination
but it's enough

page twenty
it starts with seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and human
and then it ends
the story ends somewhere
anywhere really
but it ends

It was not a heart, beating.
That muted boom, that clangor
Far off, not blood in the ears
Drumming up and fever

To impose on the evening.
The noise came from outside:
A metal detonating
Native, evidently, to

These stilled suburbs nobody
Startled at it, though the sound
Shook the ground with its pounding.
It took a root at my coming

Till the thudding shource, exposed,
Counfounded in wept guesswork:
Framed in windows of Main Street's
Silver factory, immense

Hammers hoisted, wheels turning,
Stalled, let fall their vertical
Tonnage of metal and wood;
Stunned in marrow. Men in white

Undershirts circled, tending
Without stop those greased machines,
Tending, without stop, the blunt
Indefatigable fact.

Pitter patter,
Is that the sound of the drops of rain streaming outside down my windowpane or is it in the pain I am feeling while the tears cascade down on my swollen cheeks?
I try to speak but no words come out,
The rain stops.
Pitter patter, the sound of my tears and the thudding of my heavy heart are now one.
I try to speak but no words come out.

somebody knew Lincoln somebody Xerxes

this man:a narrow thudding timeshaped face
plus innocuous winking hands, carefully
inhabits number 1 on something street

Spring comes
                the lean and definite houses

are troubled.   A sharp blue day
fills with peacefully leaping air
the minute mind of the world.
The lean and

definite houses are
troubled.in the sunset their chimneys converse
angrily,their
roofs are nervous with the soft furious
light,and while fire-escapes and
roofs and chimneys and while roofs and fire-escapes and
chimeys and while chimneys and fire-escapes
and roofs are talking rapidly all together there happens
Something,and They

cease(and
one by one are turned suddenly and softly
into irresponsible toys.)
                              when this man with

the brittle legs winces
swiftly out of number 1 someThing
street and trickles carefully into the park
sits

Down.  pigeons circle
around and around and around the

irresponsible toys
circle wildly in the slow-ly-in creasing fragility
—. Dogs
bark
children
play
-ing
     Are

in the beautiful nonsense of twilight

and somebody Napoleon

I'm going to go ahead and get this out of the way.

I'm telling you now

A warning, before you drive over the tracks

Into racing-pulse-risktaking land

That you will never be the heart

Thud-thud-thudding in my chest

Pumping my blood and keeping me chugging along

That vessel of a cliche.

I'm not so easy

Predictable

Malleable

Boring

Dumb

Naive

To entrust you with keeping it going

Leaving something so vital

In hands that could stop tick-tick-ticking

At any moment

Like a dead clock.

I'm sorry, my dear

But that particular piece of tissue

Is one that is mine and only mine

Never to be cradled by another.

But before you turn away from the crossing

I'd like to offer another disclaimer.

There are other parts of me

That can be shared

Budding blooms growing every-which-way

Perhaps requiring two sets of hands

In order to be adequately nurtured.

If you truly find it crucial

You might push your way into my being

Become a mark branded onto my existence

Fading at a snail's pace

If I'm ever so lucky

To have it fade at all.

If you wish to cross these tracks without looking both ways

You could find yourself

Close to my heart, if not within it

Swimming in my lonely blue veins

A constant reminder that we're both here

Warm

Safe

Guarded.

You could be my sweet tooth

That impassioned affinity for something that may or may not be around

At any given time.

You could be a fold of my painfully enigmatic brain

Find yourself at home amongst all the love and anger and secrets

Push past the useless facts and fly-away ideas

Hold me tight 'til you squeeze me into a headache.

You could even be part of my oh-so-problematic blood

Nourish me

To love and to cherish

In motion and in rest

Know for sure that

Should one of us rip off the dreaded universal Band-Aid

And bid the other adieu

You'll be sure to leave a dark anemic bruise

A reminder for who-knows-how-many days to come

Of who you are

And what we were.

All precautions aside

I'll let you go on your way

With this one condensed admonition:

You, and every other person to whom I'll ever send a silvery come-hither glance

Will never stake claim

On my heart

Filling and releasing

Constantly reminding me of an identity all my own

Never shaped like a Valentine.

It doesn't mean that you aren't important

When you can, in fact

Find your own empty space in anything else

But remember:

At the end of the day

Blue veins go pale

Bruises fade

And I'm in charge of what's in my own lifeblood.

Even the most grueling marks on my skin and soul

Made by malevolence and cruel intent

Will surely heal

With the help of sweet time

And this trusty heart of mine.

If you're fine with this

By all means

Cross these rickety rails.

I'll see what I can do.

Now, when the moon slid under the cloud
And the cold clear dark of starlight fell,
He heard in his blood the well-known bell
Tolling slowly in heaves of sound,
Slowly beating, slowly beating,
Shaking its pulse on the stagnant air:
Sometimes it swung completely round,
Horribly gasping as if for breath;
Falling down with an anguished cry . . .
Now the red bat, he mused, will fly;
Something is marked, this night, for death . . .
And while he mused, along his blood
Flew ghostly voices, remote and thin,
They rose in the cavern of his brain,
Like ghosts they died away again;
And hands upon his heart were laid,
And music upon his flesh was played,
Until, as he was bidden to do,
He walked the wood he so well knew.
Through the cold dew he moved his feet,
And heard far off, as under the earth,
Discordant music in shuddering tones,
Screams of laughter, horrible mirth,
Clapping of hands, and thudding of drums,
And the long-drawn wail of one in pain.
To-night, he thought, I shall die again,
We shall die again in the red-eyed fire
To meet on the edge of the wood beyond
With the placid gaze of fed desire . . .
He walked; and behind the whisper of trees,
In and out, one walked with him:
She parted the branches and peered at him,
Through lowered lids her two eyes burned,
He heard her breath, he saw her hand,
Wherever he turned his way, she turned:
Kept pace with him, now fast, now slow;
Moving her white knees as he moved . . .
This is the one I have always loved;
This is the one whose bat-soul comes
To dance with me, flesh to flesh,
In the starlight dance of horns and drums . . .

The walls and roofs, the scarlet towers,
Sank down behind a rushing sky.
He heard a sweet song just begun
Abruptly shatter in tones and die.
It whirled away.  Cold silence fell.
And again came tollings of a bell.

     *     *     *     *     *

This air is alive with witches: the white witch rides
Swifter than smoke on the starlit wind.
In the clear darkness, while the moon hides,
They come like dreams, like something remembered . .
Let us hurry! beloved; take my hand,
Forget these things that trouble your eyes,
Forget, forget!  Our flesh is changed,
Lighter than smoke we wreathe and rise . . .

The cold air hisses between us . . . Beloved, beloved,
What was the word you said?
Something about clear music that sang through water . . .
I cannot remember.  The storm-drops break on the leaves.
Something was lost in the darkness.  Someone is dead.
Someone lies in the garden and grieves.
Look how the branches are tossed in this air,
Flinging their green to the earth!
Black clouds rush to devour the stars in the sky,
The moon stares down like a half-closed eye.
The leaves are scattered, the birds are blown,
Oaks crash down in the darkness,
We run from our windy shadows; we are running alone.

     *     *     *     *     *

The moon was darkened: across it flew
The swift grey tenebrous shape he knew,
Like a thing of smoke it crossed the sky,
The witch! he said.  And he heard a cry,
And another came, and another came,
And one, grown duskily red with blood,
Floated an instant across the moon,
Hung like a dull fantastic flame . . .
The earth has veins: they throb to-night,
The earth swells warm beneath my feet,
The tips of the trees grow red and bright,
The leaves are swollen, I feel them beat,
They press together, they push and sigh,
They listen to hear the great bat cry,
The great red bat with the woman's face . . .
Hurry! he said.  And pace for pace
That other, who trod the dark with him,
Crushed the live leaves, reached out white hands
And closed her eyes, the better to see
The priests with claws, the lovers with hooves,
The fire-lit rock, the sarabands.
I am here! she said.  The bough he broke--
Was it the snapping bough that spoke?
I am here! she said.  The white thigh gleamed
Cold in starlight among dark leaves,
The head thrown backward as he had dreamed,
The shadowy red deep jasper mouth;
And the lifted hands, and the ****** *******,
Passed beside him, and vanished away.
I am here! she cried.  He answered 'Stay!'
And laughter arose, and near and far
Answering laughter rose and died . . .
Who is there? in the dark? he cried.
He stood in terror, and heard a sound
Of terrible hooves on the hollow ground;
They rushed, were still; a silence fell;
And he heard deep tollings of a bell.

     *     *     *     *     *

Look beloved!  Why do you hide your face?
Look, in the centre there, above the fire,
They are bearing the boy who blasphemed love!
They are playing a piercing music upon him
With a bow of living wire! . . .
The ****** harlot sings,
She leans above the beautiful anguished body,
And draws slow music from those strings.
They dance around him, they fling red roses upon him,
They trample him with their naked feet,
His cries are lost in laughter,
Their feet grow dark with his blood, they beat and
      beat,
They dance upon him, until he cries no more . . .
Have we not heard that cry before?
Somewhere, somewhere,
Beside a sea, in the green evening,
Beneath green clouds, in a copper sky . . .
Was it you? was it I?
They have quenched the fires, they dance in the darkness,
The satyrs have run among them to seize and tear,
Look! he has caught one by the hair,
She screams and falls, he bears her away with him,
And the night grows full of whistling wings.
Far off, one voice, serene and sweet,
Rises and sings . . .

'By the clear waters where once I died,
In the calm evening bright with stars. . . .'
Where have I heard these words?  Was it you who sang them?
It was long ago.
Let us hurry, beloved! the hard hooves trample;
The treetops tremble and glow.

     *     *     *     *     *

In the clear dark, on silent wings,
The red bat hovers beneath her moon;
She drops through the fragrant night, and clings
Fast in the shadow, with hands like claws,
With soft eyes closed and mouth that feeds,
To the young white flesh that warmly bleeds.
The maidens circle in dance, and raise
From lifting throats, a soft-sung praise;
Their knees and ******* are white and bare,
They have hung pale roses in their hair,
Each of them as she dances by
Peers at the blood with a narrowed eye.
See how the red wing wraps him round,
See how the white youth struggles in vain!
The weak arms writhe in a soundless pain;
He writhes in the soft red veiny wings,
But still she whispers upon him and clings. . . .
This is the secret feast of love,
Look well, look well, before it dies,
See how the red one trembles above,
See how quiet the white one lies! . . . .

Wind through the trees. . . and a voice is heard
Singing far off.  The dead leaves fall. . . .
'By the clear waters where once I died,
In the calm evening bright with stars,
One among numberless avatars,
I wedded a mortal, a mortal bride,
And lay on the stones and gave my flesh,
And entered the hunger of him I loved.
How shall I ever escape this mesh
Or be from my lover's body removed?'
Dead leaves stream through the hurrying air
And the maenads dance with flying hair.

     *     *     *     *     *

The priests with hooves, the lovers with horns,
Rise in the starlight, one by one,
They draw their knives on the spurting throats,
They smear the column with blood of goats,
They dabble the blood on hair and lips
And wait like stones for the moon's eclipse.
They stand like stones and stare at the sky
Where the moon leers down like a half-closed eye. . .
In the green moonlight still they stand
While wind flows over the darkened sand
And brood on the soft forgotten things
That filled their shadowy yesterdays. . . .
Where are the *******, the scarlet wings? . . . .
They gaze at each other with troubled gaze. . . .
And then, as the shadow closes the moon,
Shout, and strike with their hooves the ground,
And rush through the dark, and fill the night
With a slowly dying clamor of sound.
There, where the great walls crowd the stars,
There, by the black wind-riven walls,
In a grove of twisted leafless trees. . . .
Who are these pilgrims, who are these,
These three, the one of whom stands upright,
While one lies weeping and one of them crawls?
The face that he turned was a wounded face,
I heard the dripping of blood on stones. . . .
Hooves had trampled and torn this place,
And the leaves were strewn with blood and bones.
Sometimes, I think, beneath my feet,
The warm earth stretches herself and sighs. . . .
Listen!  I heard the slow heart beat. . . .
I will lie on this grass as a lover lies
And reach to the north and reach to the south
And seek in the darkness for her mouth.

     *     *     *     *     *

Beloved, beloved, where the slow waves of the wind
Shatter pale foam among great trees,
Under the hurrying stars, under the heaving arches,
Like one whirled down under shadowy seas,
I run to find you, I run and cry,
Where are you?  Where are you?  It is I.  It is I.
It is your eyes I seek, it is your windy hair,
Your starlight body that breathes in the darkness there.
Under the darkness I feel you stirring. . . .
Is this you?  Is this you?
Bats in this air go whirring. . . .
And this soft mouth that darkly meets my mouth,
Is this the soft mouth I knew?
Darkness, and wind in the tortured trees;
And the patter of dew.

     *     *     *     *     *

Dance!  Dance!  Dance!  Dance!
Dance till the brain is red with speed!
Dance till you fall!  Lift your torches!
Kiss your lovers until they bleed!
Backward I draw your anguished hair
Until your eyes are stretched with pain;
Backward I press you until you cry,
Your lips grow white, I kiss you again,
I will take a torch and set you afire,
I will break your body and fling it away. . . .
Look, you are trembling. . . Lie still, beloved!
Lock your hands in my hair, and say
Darling! darling! darling! darling!
All night long till the break of day.

Is it your heart I hear beneath me. . . .
Or the far tolling of that tower?
The voices are still that cried around us. . . .
The woods grow still for the sacred hour.
Rise, white lover! the day draws near.
The grey trees lean to the east in fear.
'By the clear waters where once I died . . . .'
Beloved, whose voice was this that cried?
'By the clear waters that reach the sun
By the clear waves that starward run. . . .
I found love's body and lost his soul,
And crumbled in flame that should have annealed. . .
How shall I ever again be whole,
By what dark waters shall I be healed?'

Silence. . . the red leaves, one by one,
Fall.  Far off, the maenads run.

Silence.  Beneath my naked feet
The veins of the red earth swell and beat.
The dead leaves sigh on the troubled air,
Far off the maenads bind their hair. . . .
Hurry, beloved! the day comes soon.
The fire is drawn from the heart of the moon.

     *     *     *     *     *

The great bell cracks and falls at last.
The moon whirls out.  The sky grows still.
Look, how the white cloud crosses the stars
And suddenly drops behind the hill!
Your eyes are placid, you smile at me,
We sit in the room by candle-light.
We peer in each other's veins and see
No sign of the things we saw this night.
Only, a song is in your ears,
A song you have heard, you think, in dream:
The song which only the demon hears,
In the dark forest where maenads scream . . .

'By the clear waters where once I died . . .
In the calm evening bright with stars . . . '
What do the strange words mean? you say,--
And touch my hand, and turn away.

My words don’t have arms big enough to hold these great and growing feelings.
They stay in my insides
Crowding out
Grinding down the subtleties
That reside near the edges in the used to be,
that cushiony soft berm.

It was comfortable in here once

The Room for Interpretation,

now lost,
now over-full,
balloon-bright and tumbling one voice and many into and out of supremacy.

These great and growing feelings
and my insufficient words
that fall from me one-by-one into place,
the thudding truth in basic blue.

and I would give everything I have to see your eyes light up like streetlamps and you know that time in summer where the steady glow from daylight merges into night time and the breeze dances along the leaves of trees too tall like ballerinas; so gentle if you blink you’ll miss the sway of them? that’s what you remind me of.

you are a glow, an indian sunset and I long to be the sea your sun shine kisses and when your glow transcends into moonlight I long to be the stars who are accompanied by your effervescent light night after night and you know to me you will always be a ******* sunset when you should be rainfall: you pour down on everything I love and leave puddles;  you cause unapologetic floods in the crevices of my collarbones and attach your saltwater to the follicles of my hair and you warp the words on the pages of love letters I never sent and when you fall down my cheeks my teardrops and your raindrops will merge and for a moment we will become one and that’s all I’ve ever wanted. to be one with you. to be a ******* indian sunset in your illuminous eyes.

I keep running through the hallways of my mind and your voice is bouncing off the walls and echoing straight through my chest and there’s a thudding that gets louder and louder, like bongo drums, every time and I’m pretty sure my heart is now a gallery of us, open for public consumption and they can walk along the hallways and appreciate the beauty of our profound love like you never could.

one day you will find someone who melts your heart into your veins until it feels like the oxygen around your body is trapped and screaming for you to try to breathe, try to breathe harder and you’ll scream for them and they’ll stop returning your calls and there’ll be no texts and everything you once had will sink – almost in slow motion, almost as intangible as the idea that I loved you harder than anyone ever could – a ship where you’re the only person aboard and you’ll be watching an indian sunset like you watched their fingertips trace the curvature of your hips for the last time and you’ll realise in that moment that they were your indian sunset and man, don’t you just wish for some rainfall?

Shrieking, all-in, nothingheldback laughter
Beats up against my skull,
Thudding, thudding.
Is this happiness observed?
Pools of wrinkles gather underneath
Squinted eyes,
Little silk kimonos crumpled at the foot of a bed.
Laugh lines fold and expand,
As if they are their own organisms,
Breathing in and out with the rhythm of life.

Somewhere else, there is crying,
***** feet and bruises the color of wilted pansies.
Undisturbed, they vibrate to a different frequency,
An isolated rhythm.
A symphony of cornflower and charcoal,
They dance about in a sad song of neglect.
Far away from the loud, booming laughter.

Oh, sunken eyes and sullen brows,
How have you not yet changed the world?
Thunder your despair,
Push up against the merriness and chrisanthimum bliss.

it started as a polite knock
tap tap tap
always three times
my heart asked timidly to leave my body
tap tap tapped
on my ribs
always in three
my heart has ocd you see

soon my heart progressed
thud thud thud
always three times
my heart started raising its voice
thud thud thudding
on my ribs
always in three
my heart has ocd you see

then my heart was angry
wham wham wham
my heart pounded in my chest
wham wham whamming
on my ribs
always in three
my heart has ocd you see

I am here, risen up
from dust
and I sit in the sand
beneath the mangroves
as fruits fall around me
thudding softly in the
strewn leaves.

We sit here,
where I am,
these fruits
and these insects
and small reptiles,
watching the clouds roll in from the east,
where the ocean sprawls,
lavishing the beach with delicate hands
under the phosphorescent moon.

We all sit here,
the fruits,
insects,
reptiles,
the ocean,
and I-

We watch dense clouds roll in
as distant flashes of light
and gongs of thunder
grow more frequent-

we sit-
we watch-
and we wait-

for the rain.

Human beings are we all,
Each of us sharing views, that differ and are similar, and
Hang suspended in the air
By pieces of thread called emotions.

We all hold to our minds
Thoughts of hate and sorrow,
Revenge and jealousy.
The mind is the chamber of negative secrets.

We all hold to our hearts
Feelings of love and joy,
Happiness and bliss.
The heart is the bed chamber of positive secrets.

The beating rhythmic heart in the center of our chest
Is the one thing that forever remains pure.
The thudding mass of brain that is our mind
Is what is susceptible to pollution.

If every human being follows their heart
And not what their mind thinks is correct,
No one in this world will be lost.

Mistress Misery,
You remind me of many things
Of things such as an aching, thudding heart
Of lost marriage rings

Of rainfall
During a bleak, cloudy day
Pattering a tune of blues
With a black cat lurking, a homeless stray

Of slow-played violins
Strumming across many a sad note
Of pointless lives, causing crushing depression
To which many a person does devote

Of abandoned houses, of creaking floorboards
Of dust, cobwebs and failing light
Of storm thundering whilst the moon is up
A desolate, cold, wet and empty street in the midst of night.

Mistress Misery,
You remind me of darker times in life
It's just in your nature
To show the dark, to show the afterlife

Me
I quickly tap my screen to respond to your message
"I'm absolute garbage and I love you."

You
Your fingers softly brush against the keys as you type out your reply,
"You're absolutely beautiful garbage and I love you more."

Me
I thought that things would be different with you; you were so much more compassionate
"I think I'm in love with you."

You
You hesitate as you read my message, unaware of the stars that were forming in my mind at the mere thought of you
"I'm not in love with you."

Me
I read the message with my brimming eyes and soon enough, I hear the explosions in my ear of the galaxies that once formed when you told me I was an unexplainable force of nature that everyone was wary of.
I also hear the slow thudding of my heart in my ears before everything fades away and becomes numb.

You*
You sit there, quiet and in deep thought
You heard the planets imploding all the way from your bedroom
But all you did was shrug, shake your head and turn up your music.

imagine a calloused doubt.
cracked, chipped, clicking
like warped wooden floorboards.
soft from overuse
but still overrides willpower
in one palpitating breath.
grimy yet illusive
like your teeth after a day’s work,
collecting gunk that sidles up
to calcium companions,
crunching down on things
that become
so bland in the end.
doubt is offbeat,
monstrous footsteps hidden deep
off beaten paths,
its thudding is clammy and hurried,
aligned to the discordant jazz of
your alarmed body.
it tastes like
coppery heartbeats,
rising bile,
salt and mucus in the back of your throat.
it is a truly uncomfortable thing.
it stacks sweetly like buttercream pancakes
but crumbles you
with such a sour taste on your tongue.
imagine an agony that loves you.

the train whistles lull me to a dusty sleep
     an ancient sleep
primitive and timeless as the sage
          it tastes like rain
          and reads like a folk song

and when the engine songs are gone
the interstate strikes up it's serenade
     flooding my heart valves with gasoline
     and valvoline
     and the smile of what i can only hope to imagine are young lovers
with a fiesty case of wanderlust
and a puppy in the back seat
with a wagging tail

"happy trails" i whisper
and the stars flicker
and i smile

the walls let their secrets slide while they sleep
     all those restless memories they keep for themselves
floating around
and settling in the parlor dust

they trust me just enough
to let me cradle them in my chest
woven between my rebar ribs
and my flat-tire heart
     thud thud thudding as it speeds off into the distance

the dogs rustle the sheets as they rise
     just long enough to sigh
          dance a sleepy circle and a half
and put themselves back to bed

i finally crawl out from inside my noisy head
as the boy nestles up to my neck
and traces my clavical with his humid breath
and ropes me in closer to his chest
     with his big bear arms

his heart sings like a fire alarm
stirring the brave to save me from the shadows
     and chase the ghosts from my gallows
          and he even lets out puppy snores in his sleep
the tune that finally pirouettes me towards my dreams

where the birds sing like drunken sailors in the mango groves
and the rows and rows of lime trees
     my heart and mind innertwined to paint me a scene i've never even seen
          not with my own eyes

it's so nice to think it's within me
and not without me

yes
     for every sound, a source

LAST night a January wind was ripping at the shingles
over our house and whistling a wolf song under the
eaves.

I sat in a leather rocker and read to a six-year-old girl
the Browning poem, Childe Roland to the Dark
Tower Came.

And her eyes had the haze of autumn hills and it was
beautiful to her and she could not understand.

A man is crossing. a big prairie, says the poem, and
nothing happens--and he goes on and on--and it's
all lonesome and empty and nobody home.

And he goes on and on--and nothing happens--and he
comes on a horse's skull, dry bones of a dead horse--
and you know more than ever it's all lonesome and
empty and nobody home.

And the man raises a horn to his lips and blows--he
fixes a proud neck and forehead toward the empty
sky and the empty land--and blows one last wonder-
cry.

And as the shuttling automatic memory of man clicks
off its results *****-nilly and inevitable as the snick
of a mouse-trap or the trajectory of a 42-centimetre
projectile,

I flash to the form of a man to his hips in snow drifts
of Manitoba and Minnesota--in the sled derby run
from Winnipeg to Minneapolis.

He is beaten in the race the first day out of Winnipeg--
the lead dog is eaten by four team mates--and the
man goes on and on--running while the other racers
ride, running while the other racers sleep--

Lost in a blizzard twenty-four hours, repeating a circle
of travel hour after hour--fighting the dogs who
dig holes in the snow and whimper for sleep--
pushing on--running and walking five hundred
miles to the end of the race--almost a winner--one
toe frozen, feet blistered and frost-bitten.

And I know why a thousand young men of the North-
west meet him in the finishing miles and yell cheers
--I know why judges of the race call him a winner
and give him a special prize even though he is a
loser.

I know he kept under his shirt and around his thudding
heart amid the blizzards of five hundred miles that
one last wonder-cry of Childe Roland--and I told
the six year old girl about it.

And while the January wind was ripping at the shingles
and whistling a wolf song under the eaves, her eyes
had the haze of autumn hills and it was beautiful
to her and she could not understand.

Since we met in this life we’ve been so together
The trees and the sky will tell you, just ask them
Since, frankly and completely as one
Searching our souls, discovering each other and ourselves
Loving, living and learning with no effort at all
Moulding our life to divine goals, elements exploring
Each day we grow, smoothing our rituals and tasks
Simple, small, understated and beautiful
Yet enormous, devastating and wonderful
I’ve never been clearer in mind nor more ordered
Serious or intended, structured yet mesmerised and dreamy
Child-like pleasures our little hearts

Honestly, knowing you has given an exclusive season of patience
A crown of peace with measures of muted resonance
My emotion and behaviour  jangle with excitement
Gaining speed and velocity as our developing love fertilises everything we do
If any part of me was withheld or absent it was without cognisance or most importantly intent
I was always here totally,  loving you with an undivided heart
Building our future and having the truest most delightful life
Such destiny within two earthly beings, such kismet
But no..earth is not  from where we sprung
No logic or contract by human standards but from cosmos and celestial forces
Stardust, moonbeams, sunlight and energy

Our future is viridian, cobalt, alizarin, ultramarine, carmine...
Colours drawn from a bow of happiness with arrows of true love
Thudding into our hearts every single moment
Rainbows of kindly sparkly crystals reflecting each tiny emotion
Willow tree flexibility, cool streams of pure clear water whisper in our ears
Look to your soul and to the memories of our short time together
Begin to believe that life is so very good ,so treasured like us
Darling Jan my complete lover
The wife I’ve always had, true soul provider, custodian of my heart
Clearer in the transformation from Jan and Max to a ‘whole’ inseparable
By anyone or anything for all time and eternity..
Even better knowing that as always
Now even more.....I’m all yours

High on Hawk Hill, where ancestors of past had danced and chanted tunes of yore. Sat a modern man, dressed in illusion and bold in his character. He was of a consuming nation, and regretted that, but what
could be left behind here at these healing mountains not even the local bellman would speak.

So the modern man and a group of individuals all from distinct cultural groups waded down and through the rivers. Dis-clothed, they would look each other in the eyes. The clouds would hang like lily pads of atmospheric magnitude over head the stage of man, waiting, smiling, wondering. Bathing and cleansing, the beings would draw steam to the heavens from their radiating bodies. Rinsing with the herbal perfumes and seasoned smells, they would dress in flowers and beauty. Long dryad hair wore the women of druidism. Feathers and clothes draped from tribal piercings and exuberant head wear.

They stood wooden spires over peering exceptional mountain ranges which held the coves and nests of spirits. Something deep was within the Raven's Caw or the magic that the deer's leg print led to.

Piercing the corrugated peaked ridges laid within winding and glistening river banks which brought leagues of fresh fish to the bay peoples. Poking from root-stock, the medium mammals would bore warm dens with fresh nuts and berries to feed. The red gloaming sun would reign overhead when bellies were full and out would the children play. Songs were crooned throughout the lands and together the creatures of the bush would wander to join. And when the sun would squint its last ray and the darkness kissed the land with hovering summer warmth. Something ancient would hold the stillness.

Across those gigantic ranges was the spirit of nostalgic history. A thudding would be announced like the marching of a great ocean of ones forgotten. Bounds of diverse souls and spirits colored of rainbows from differences would pour and not even the most contemporary and constricted could argue the depth of beauty of these myriad mixed marching souls.

Curls of vapor rose like dancing spirits from the hearth of camp. T'was a nightly ritual that invoked the spirits of ages. For one man locked in trance to envision the union of souls, no matter immense diversity. Songs would project from those hollow vocal cords of ghosts harmonized and jiving. Limbs of smoke would wrap around the enchanted man, lifting him to realm of the immaterial. Those disembodied chants and drumming of old seemed to converge as the
man was dislodged from a heavy body. What was left was a golden hum of unison, floating, floating.

Hovering light like a cloud of non-density, buoyant in a space which seemed to have no points of reference. Simple and overwhelming was a warm and ecstatic hum of bliss that enveloped what should have been his body like thin silk robes woven of divinity. Laced in caressing arms he would drift slowly and softly back to a solid and still world of night. Exemplified darkness would circle a single dim lit fire, almost gone out.

Those drawing off hums would change tone and become the snoring of lovely plump women and young children cuddled. All of energy which once was exercised, was left but just a simmering coal of fire and pipe.
The smoke curled once more from the feather dressed man's nose, seeming a dragon in the night.

Tired would the night drift along into those colored dreams. Smoothly, the hills would rise and awaken into a purple, crisp morning bounding with birds. Squirrels would perch and nibble. Winds would brush glittering  glades. Hushed but ever known would the spirits rest in their eternal vaults..

Blue.
That’s all I can see everywhere I look.
Beautiful dangerous blue.
I feel like I’m suspended in air, light, free, but sinking.
I’m running out of air! I think as my lungs start constricting themselves.
My feet finally touch the black and blue-white tile; my hair comes down around my face, soft, like feathers.
I look up and I can see the lights on the ceiling, and beyond that the fluffy white clouds in the baby blue sky.
I feel so heavy. I don’t think I can make it back up again. I push feebly at the floor, but I don’t get anywhere.
My vision starts to dim, and as I sink limply to my knees, I sigh.
What’s the point of even trying anymore?   I watch the bubbles dance their way back to the surface.
I know I should try again, but I’m just too tired.
Another parade of bubbles escape my parted lips, my drowsy lids slowly close, the thudding heartbeat in my ears lulling me to sleep, and setting the tempo for the tiny  air dancers as they float toward the sky.
In the darkness I feel an immense weight lift from my shoulders, and my eyes fly open.
What’s going on?!
I look to the left and right, everything is still blue. I realize I’m still at the bottom, but I feel weightless.
The pain in my chest is gone and the thumping in my ears. I turn around and look directly into my own face. Understanding hits me like a runaway whale, but I don’t want to believe it’s true. I want to feel sad, yet there’s no emotion trying to overtake me; nothing to fight. I reach out and touch my cold cheek.
Why?  Is the only thing running through my cotton stuffed head. Again I look over my sleeping face, my hand traveling over my features.
I have to be sure.  I gently lift one lid.
The brown eye I look into is dull, empty… lifeless. I expect a train wreck of emotion to come crashing down on me, but I feel nothing.
A flurry of movement above me catches my eye, and I look up to see Mr.Jones jetting down towards me. He reaches my body, quickly wrapping an arm around my stomach.
He kicks off the bottom paddling his way to the surface, my useless arms and legs trailing after him like limp seaweed. I follow him, walking through the smooth blue. Mr.Jones breaks the surface, clenching me to his side as he tows me to the wall.
A waterfall of chlorinated water gushed from my mouth, and I am yanked, like a shard of metal to a magnet, back into my body. I cough and spit, riding my lungs of the foreign substance. Mr.Jones boosts me up on the wall and pats my back until I can breathe again.
My grandmother rushes over and hugs me to her despite the fact that I’m sopping wet. She brushes my hair away from my face and asks if I’m alright.
I do my best to nod, but I don’t think I’m very successful; seeing as I’m shaking so hard. I try to get up, but my legs are like silly string. Gram helps me up and half supports half carries me to the locker rooms.
I stand under the shower in my swimsuit, hot water pelting the top of my head; masking the silent tears that are streaming down my face. Despite the water’s heat, I’m still shivering and my whole body is cold; inside and out.
I get out, towel off, and put on a pair of blue jeans and a plain red shirt. The bright red a comforting change from the cold, clear blue.
I stand in front of the mirror and brush the tangles from my hair, but I won’t look into the mirror. I cant. I’m afraid of what will be staring back at me.
I don’t know how long I stand in front of the mirror trying to make myself look up. It feels like hours. I feel a hand come down on my shoulder and I jump. I look up warily and sigh with relief.
Oh good, it’s just Gram. She says its time to leave and she goes to get my bag. I take a deep breath, cough a few times, and force myself  to face the mirror. Staring back at me is a girl- me yet its not me somehow. Something is different, my hair is the same, my face is the same, but wait!
I lean over the sink, nearly pressing my nose against the glass. Now I see whats so different, what changes everything. I step back from the mirror and stare into the strangely cold, older looking eyes, and think...
*That's me...

When I was a child,
Watching a wayward world through a lens of wonder and possibility,
Bound to an unusual captor of bats and gloves,
Reaching towards the rest of my life,
Over the head of the life I was already living,
I fell in love.
Not with a person or an object,
Nothing but a symbol of everlasting youth.
A team,
A place,
A game,
It was baseball.
Not just the game but everything that accompanied it,
A family,
Brothers becoming brothers.
A world,
The smells of trees and rain and concession stand hotdogs,
The sounds of a ball thudding into a catcher’s mitt and cheering fans,
The tastes of early morning Starbucks and corn nuts and bubble gum,
All of it stuck between basepaths,
Sitting on a bench in a dugout,
Spilled on the seats of my father’s car.

All of these little things,
All of the memories,
Just moments passed,
Lost in the depths of my mind,
Taunting me as I wish to return to them.
Although not yet old, I am older,
Reminiscing on the good and the bad of my youth.
I can still remember the veil of paralyzing loneliness,
Pierced by the family found in my brother’s team.
I remember the tears shed as I watched my father devoting his life to that team.
Those bad times were outshined by the good,
Team dinners in faraway towns,
Sunsets over outfield scoreboards,
Driving back to hotels in the dark with the windows down and classic rock blaring.
This is the way that I grew up,
Lonely but free,
Unhappy but secure,
In love with a thing that took so much from me,
Lasting Stockholm Syndrome bleeding from my life as it was to the life that I have.
I have lost this love,
No longer experience the ups and downs that can only be described as the reality of life.
I cannot weep over this lost love,
Cannot wallow,
Knowing that this is how it must be.
I must let go,
Grow up,
Get old,
Move on away from the family I found and the world I discovered,
Life doesn’t slow until it stops,
Barreling towards a hollow canyon,
Disappearing over a cliff to be covered by fistfuls of dirt,
Watered by the tears of loved ones left behind.
I must leave my love to rest before I lay in that hollow canyon.

Why must we grow up?
Grow out of our innocence and naivety, careless inexperience?
Why must we take for granted the memories of our youth?
Where do we retrieve them when our age returns to us and we miss the forgotten beauty of the world through a child’s eyes?
I wish the softness of the summer breeze would return to me,
Find me again in my days of regret,
In the sea of sorrow following me from my youth,
Sending waves crashing over my head.
I am not yet old, not yet wise,
But still, I mourn the loss of days past,
Loss of sweet summer softness,
Of the relentless rain ruining the chances I had of forgiving my father.

I have forgiven him since.
I forgave him like I forgave myself,
Regretfully.
I often miss that swirling storm of emotions I felt,
The loneliness, the worthlessness, the heart sickness.
So young and so filled with pain, balanced only by the Children of the Sun radiating from my chest.
Views of the maple-*******, the leather-launcher, the grenade-catcher,
Smells of earth and freedom,
Sounds of gentle violence, drawn-out intellectualism,
Overwhelming my senses and filling my days.
Those memories will follow me into the reaper’s grasp,
Rest with me in my eternal cradle.
Despite the storm, the pain, the sickness,
I dream of that cradle where the memories, the bitter and the sweet, will come together in the storm,
Meet like lightning and thunder,
And follow me into peace.
I am not yet old, but I long to be,
To once again feel my love and its infinite reach.

Chains and shackles

Chains and shackles weigh me down
Ties to strong to break, helpless struggle
Unheard screams, guards surround me
Your around me, and you run blindly
So I sit quietly, with silent thought
Not knowing can be easer, so I remain unheard
I falter under pressure so squeamishly
Why slow you down?
You would try to carry me

Chains and shackles hold me down
My echoed heart beat is the only sound
A thudding heart could be heard
Tare it out from my very breast
It stop the twisted breath in my empty chest
A tortured heart freed from the rest
My body now a cesspool
A wasteland of festered stress
I will **** my hopes and dreams if it means
Honesty, equality, fairness to my loved

Chains and shackles ground me down
I could fly when your around
But I will squash anything
I wont dare let my bleeding heart sing
So let the guards hold me down
I challenge the people to there bliss
Tragic is no way for loves first kiss

The heart swells and swells,

a bit threatening. The heart hardens

and hardens, frightfully...

I am afraid for my heart.



I feel its mound beneath

the flesh of my breast, thudding

when it is tender, feeling absent when

it hardens...



The heart tries to soften when it becomes

hard, to keep thudding and rising, afraid

of the silence.



When the heart feels love,

it swells, enlarged with

blood and promise, anxious

for the sound of its own drum.

Across and abound to the sounds of fire, they lurch and leap toward the river bend. The twilight is thunderous and bold, a fragmented frown upon this calamity of calamities. It's jagged, smooth streaks of light passing judgement from the heavens above. God himself looks on.

Bright Blues to blend with Grim Greys upon such an all encompassing canvas of green. I hadn't known the extent in power of the color Red before this night, in overpowering; in swallowing up, smothering. Exploding in iridescence and irony, in trite translucent tragedy. It sinks into the ground. As it sinks into the bones of myself and my posterity.

I shivered and clutched my chest, that my heart did still beat. Noticing to my relief, it was thudding quite audibly amongst the quiet stir of grass and leaves beneath my feet. It was then I noticed the haunting silence of it all. I was alone.

But I was not alone, my eyes could see the smoke rise, they could almost feel the bullets whip through the wind. The chill of which caressed my skin in sensation. But sounds of gunfire, bombs bursting, yells yelping, the riotous roar of it all, were absent as a shadow. My veins turned to ice, my skin to stone.

In one particularly magnificent mingling of light, in one irradiating instant; I stumbled as sound met my deaf ears. Lightning and Fire danced in the sky. In this soulless shimmer, the slow shuttering lens of humanity captured the essence of something much beyond the present frame of existence. Breaking glass and pouring out of corners, a transcendental photograph. Reaching out through the pages of time to be acted out in accents yet unknown, by peoples yet unborn, to scream with insoluble resolve. The heart of man beats as one, we shall overcome.

My words are clumsy
and heavy as rocks thudding
on top of moist earth.
They're disruptive,
uncomfortable.
The noise of my voice like brass
clattering down a flight of stairs,
injured and dented.
Though underground, the sound
is silky and sleek.
My words falling like tiny pearls,
tap dancing daintily,
spilling smooth across marble,
rolling easily,
steady like pattering rain.

Seven minutes to midnight
The New Year’s Eve party in full swing
How stunning you look in that red dress
Our friendship of many years is about to fail
Funny how one moment can change everything
My heart pounding, I feel like a mess
Our courtship playing out on a global scale

Six minutes to midnight
My mind is racing, and I begin to perspire
You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen
Why you chose to dance with me, I'll never know
Thoughts of what may come sets my heart on fire
I always secretly hoped you may be keen
And now the world waits for us to put on a show

Five minutes to midnight
Uncertainty begins to cloud my every thought
Perhaps I misread all of the signs
What if the whole thing is only in my head
I remember the times when we bickered and fought
Sometimes I read too much between the lines
All confidence gone, my feet turn to lead

Four minutes to midnight
I watch, mesmerized by your swaying hips
My soul is filled with joy by your laughing eyes
How could I ever doubt the way you feel
We move together and now I become transfixed
Reflections in a mirror, our bodies synchronize
My deepest hopes and dreams finally becoming real

Three minutes to midnight
The pace and tone of the music intensifies
We dance as one, never missing a single beat
Our arms moving together in perfect time
My stomach churns, full of butterflies
I never knew anyone could be so sweet
To think, in a few moments you could be mine

Two minutes to midnight
My ears fill with the sound of my thudding heart
As though a million men were marching nearby
Surely you can hear its deafening roar
We've both waited a long time to play our part
Now the time approaches when our love can fly
I wonder why we never thought to do this before

One minute to midnight
Standing precariously at the edge of the abyss
One wrong step and we both might tumble
But we've come too far now to walk away
As the seconds count down, I begin to reminisce
Recalling the friendship that's about to crumble
The whole world will always remember today

Midnight*
In a sea of red, balloons falling from the sky
Our arms finally embrace, as midnight chimes
Your intoxicating perfume fills me with bliss
All men should feel this way before they die
As the band begins to play Auld Lang Syne
I whisper a silent prayer, and we kiss ...

I am champagne bubbles
And fairy wings
And confetti sprinkles
And heart-thudding bass
And dizzy melody
And all the shining city lights that show you the
Way home

I am all these things
And every floating, giddy thought
15 again
For the first time in forever
Painting glitter on every horizon
Because I can't contain the smiles on my lips

loose gravel crunching loudly beneath me transposes
into the soft thudding of my feet against the soil.
the meadow, my old friend, greets me
with a whispering wind. we are both happy.

the sun dips just below the horizon,
watercoloring the sky in lilacs and siennas.
cicadas converse around me, as I am
but a guest at their lovely hillside home.

the cotton-swab clouds part, and the moon debuts.
she is pure, unsullied radiance. with the stars as backup,
and the sky as her stage, she pirouettes, beginning
her nightly routine. tears glide down my cheeks.

rich plums of dusk fade into the dark navies of night,
and my head sinks into pillowy grass.
my eyelids become lead, and the sandman arrives.
everything is quiet, and this peace is eternal.