wings

grief is so wide-

spread, and yet

 

so personal.

 

don’t you dare tell me

how to feel,

 

how to not feel,

how to mourn,

 

how to move on.

 

this is a song i will be

writing for the rest of

 

my life, and even i

may never

 

sing it.

Advertisements

pre-view

i’m here.
i’m here in the heart of the city.
in the heart of pretenses.
calling you through this concrete window:

you just stepped out of the bath,
out of breath from the heat and the
stretching and the thoughts of wanting me
to see you even in the midst of your mess.

we’re both here. on this non-fiction line.
on this day of one lost hour. on this day
of the dead; of our continued living in
electricity and love and power and dread.

right before i stood up and
nailed it, all of it, right to the
tree and then sunk down on my knees
to worship her sanctity—

i sang you the words of my grandmother’s
story, and you told me of your father’s
eulogy, and our hearts pounded together
over the invisibly real sound waves.

give & receive

taking and receiving
are not the same.

receiving requires open
hands: waiting, breathing,

trusting; it’s
softer, slower.

taking is
like a jab:

in & out, getting
what you need,

reaching in with
one hand while

keeping a fist up
at the face.

are you on
the take?

hungry to
feed?

or are you listening,
watching, breathing,

ready to wait; to
linger; to hurt;

to bleed: are you
ready to receive?

alone with you

20150723_230621

your arms around me, like a

tree; a thousand words unsaid,

passed tight between.



all the right words,

all the non-sounds i’m

climbing to hear.



with enough time,

any thing could

happen.



with you, all

things feel

possible.



an elemental joy-

ful-sad-ness holds,

tremors on the edge of



need in clear

view of

want.



i drive away, drive you

away, drive away from

my true self.


20150723_230609

the passing of pax romana

she sits in her space and feels a stirring,

much like the wind, much like a calling

to another place not yet

known, not yet her own:

her fingers buzz with forbidden

magic; her mind moves mountains.

the invisible warrings

of love write themselves

quietly on the back-side

of her heart-quilt, sewn in

tight like jewels, like journals

coming alive on the inside linings

of her organs, playing out

their orange chicanery.

just outside the monastery

of her own making, she

gazes at her mother repeatedly

riding in on the tide, her spirit

slipping into her shell sides;

she holds the best close

to her core and lets

the rest follow back

with the moon.