Tag Archives: verse


Winter’s melting into the apartment

In the misty light, my insides warm and brassy
She and I lay in a heartbeat’s hibernation

She exists in telegraph bursts,
The moments between a switched flip and a bulb exploding to life.
From time before time, the question and the echo,
Ribbons and a kindling spark, heat and smoke and everything

The very zipper-teeth of her tumble over everywhen,
A hundred thousand backbone dice cast into the pit
Some lost to history, more stuck between the pages, others now

I’m rattling in the cup of the future, waiting to roll
I’m learning to be less present

I dreamed my mother’s eyes were taffy-stretched
Woven in forever knots through the skeleton beams of our unfinished house
I’m tangling more and more

The frayed ends of me wander, winding, riverlike
Crossing, curling, turning ever away toward her
Vibrating to her pulse–the waves and the warped

Winter is lifting

My breath rolls in like a stranger, and the heart wakes

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How I got Up there

Once by the sunflowers I was afraid to jump.

I had a home in a dusty box
Hammered out in cheap words and wood
On another edge of the world
In dresses, mothballs, needles and blown pipe ash
The brown bag refuge in the pines

Once I flew over the library in the pink cold sunset.

Somewhere there’s sandy clapboards and the shells in the rock
Smoke and mattresses
Delirium and stolen breath
Rolling cartwheels down cobbleways
There’s a drag on your coat tails
And a bishop behind the gate

Once I tread on thin shingles and plastic ghosts.

I had a canvas jacket
I had a brown patch coat
I had a long black number
I was all sandglass and brick

Once I simply opened a door and climbed up.

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All along

She doesn’t expect much but she hopes for all
Little red flame burning hot in a velvet cage, vulnerable
Asking eyes and a fist balled-up tight around life

Independent of the many ghosts that pinball bump against her
And shoot off silver with her momentum, she is adventured
She is her own adventure

Beating back forest to discover lost cities, she
is a hammer and a chisel and the artist and the marble in the block
She will never be finished

Suspended and unseen within perfection she is a masterpiece
Her lips tell me why we die for love: I lose my life
With every kiss

When she is here I am aware of my half-form, and know
That I am damned to incompletion,that I
Was born to be half-great without her, and I

Would pour myself into her like rain into the sea
Forgetting the sky
To be a meaningless diffusion in her mysteries

Sometimes I am a chronicler of her long journey into air
And into darkness, walls of marble, glass and fire
Small and hidden in the sunlight, I

Can sleep here close to her heat
Happy to consume her light
As happily consumed

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And you are–?

Why not meet twice?
Why not three times, or four?

Why catalogue our knowledge, keep each other
in a store that we must draw on every time
we pass, until we burn the substance of
our mystery from thick intrigue to paper
panes of penetrable glass?

I have met you.
Forget all that.  Come meet with me again.

Let all the skittish, probing questions fly
and bounce around the ether, blind, unsure,
and bloomed to blushing courage by encouraging reply
that says: I do not know you yet–but I
would push myself out of my mouth, project
from teeth and tongue and tangle in your air
an exhale between one kiss and one ‘goodbye’

We meet.
And, simply, without knowing why,

Our fingers brush, our blood is heated by
an unfamiliar voice, and we ask: why?
In fitful fantasies, insomniac twists,
we sate our fascination, drinking in
the intertwine of lives and legs and longing
to be met; to melt; intensify that passing
on the street, meet, and re-meet, skin upon skin,
and heart from heart, and mingling steam with steam.

I meet you morning, afternoon, and night.
And every time, I find we can meet twice.

If I know you, how can I redefine
each hand-mapped inch and memorized fragment,
each hair and blush and blemish of a face,
and every tripping meeting, every time?
And find we do not owe but to eachother,
and as do twisted roots, we grow together.

Let us meet.

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Death, The Life Story

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"Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living."- Jonathan Safran Foer. || student, loves travelling and perhaps baking a cake.||

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