we are always building

i miss the feeling of shaking

from something other than

 

anger, other than fear. i go

to my window and look for the

 

little flowers of hope. they are

every where; fragments amid

 

very long sentences: the swallow

tail, the barn swallow, the migrating

 

monarch. your energy goes where it’s

needed; there, it meets the energy it needs.

 

fire is friction.

imagine these are real:

 

a tiny wild child on your knee,

a tired dictator on the other, the

 

view of your own face from the

inside; they are all in the arena

 

with you: daring greatly.

we are always building: bridges,

 

portals, spirals, spaceships—

without knowing. all the

 

water droplets are being

summoned into one

 

stream, here at the

intersection of all things.

 

 

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i want to read you

i want to read you;

i want to feel your words

slip over me, pull me into

their tide, strip me down with

their waves without trying.

 

i want to listen to the music

of your thought, follow it

into the forest, happen upon

a leprechaun and wood spryte

making gold, making love.

 

i want the letting of all this

matter into energy; these

disguises to fall away, the

memories of mountain-tops

to sway in their return.

 

i want to deep-dive into a

painting of a thousand sun-

sets, moments spent think-

ing of you; of our writing, of

our meeting: one and the same.

all the real things in life are invisible

all the real things in life are invisible:

love, spirit, joy, dreams;

real because they last forever and cannot be

destroyed by time and wear and tear.

 

they may change and convert into other forms:

hate, pain, despair, greed;

but they do not ever disappear—

they only shift:

 

not right before your eyes,

because to the mortal eye

they are unseen—

they can only be felt.

 

and this is why they are real.

this is why they last beyond mortality,

decay, corruption, passing away.

this is why we love tiny furniture:

 

concrete objects we can manipulate while

playing god; playthings that placate before

they break, disintegrate, fall into the earth,

get swallowed up by the energies.

 

we are spirits seeking spirits, wearing masks, boots,

threads, things that give us weight, things that make us

follow them, that make us tread softly and slowly

through water and sand, through this fluid wasteland.

green glass door

20150504_065821

if you’re going to
wake it up, you
better know how
to put it to sleep;

opening the cage at
the back of the
throat, setting that
lone bird free.

the silhouette of might:
fueling to felling to
feeling to steeping
to flying

high above the gravity
of being gone, spun hard
and too soon from
a bamboo neck.

waiting is harder.
a long spin of
need; of wanting every
thing to matter again.

in the mean time
it is the
matter
that matters.

unable to use energy
to turn it into
energy
just yet;

holding onto the
objects we have
touched every day
for years

because they are ours,
because we have owned them
and moved them
and made them

while breathing
in the
tall silos
of time:

sitting perfectly
still, silting at galaxy
speed inside the eye of

for ever;

inside the utter silence
of your self while
teeth like
tomb stones

take the wear and weather
of days, the stark
white bite sharp against
heels and eyes.

never stop hunting the human spirit.

moving forward this
giant chess piece of
life, this organ body

holding, playing, splaying
light and music and weeping
over nights of
confessional hills:

trees forgiving

something galloping

spoons clinking

flowers stretching

cards shuffling

green glass flying

grass whispering

bones bending

will crying

peaches summering.

how close to the cliff,
how huge the moon,
how empty and full the
song of hope.

20150504_065622

Paintings by Olivia Santiago

fire wall

 

think with the body

every thing

is in a state of

change

 

loose lips

living works

torched

everything is in a state of change

 

energy. matters.

the noun moves the verb:

 

makes love to its

self not in sex but in

love-thinking down

to its center

 

particle by particle

until the sum of its

loud quiet parts tips

a hand and for one

 

evening-span makes

a slip of sense.