Tuesday, May 8, 2012


4/24

I see into you with eyes anew
Once you said what you said-
What you said was true.
For you found me far
Away I was.  And through
Layers of skin, saw hope for love.

My presence had drifted
Until you said what you said-
When you said, I lifted
Up away from the ground
If just barely
Like a hair pulled only by a fairy.

My hand fell steadier upon your chest
As you said, and I heard, just what you said.
And said you where our bodies lay rest
Closer words to perfection within
Me wrapped in embrace.
For said things wilt unless grown in grace.



5/3


Outside, inside
Black, white.
Glass in between
You and me.

Here, come in
Inside the glass
Into the space
Out of the out.

No, outside she stays-
Crazy.
Inside is sane
In-sane.
Who? It’s hard to tell.

We’re separated
Or so we think.
By what? Glass?
Yes, if only to
Keep you out.

But a face is a covering
A faux, an image.
Who, what, lies in the skin
We don’t care-
You’re out, we’re in.

Maybe we’ve failed
A true test of time
The answer
walked away
From the glass of divide.

Monday, April 23, 2012

4/21

I decided not to read the magazine
Just to hold it over my head.
It seemed silly to read - words make me sweat
So instead they will do what I won't regret.

Because if I keep on reading
I might know more.
Tiny shapes called letters form life altering lines:
Letters of love, lyrics for soul, purposeful signs. 

So why put them in my head,rather than on top?
Would I wish the risk to shift
my views, plans, my pure white skin?
I feel wise in this decision, but then again...
4/19
Boredom.


On a day with nothing to do
it seems easy to go mad.
crazy-mad, that is.
Not like mad that across the street there is a sprinkler.
Which does make me mad- in Arizona?
Really?

But there has to be something
I could learn, make go
or sit.  And inactively await a purpose.
And be bored- I am bored.
I'm bored of this poem. 
3/22

In this corner you might find:
a yellow butterfly,
floating Styrofoam pieces,
a stabbing ache,
newborn somethings beginning to unwind

broken glasses on the ground
I'm sorry.
Faint music lost,
just enough smoke to blink again,
Crumpled notes of remembrance found.

Where the lines come together
seems smooth to touch-
a crease.
But closer eye can see
a slight jagged slit, thin as a feather.

Is it dark and vast
or brightly acute?
Pulling apart these solid sides
or eyes squinting focus 
will never grant reach to what's past.

Because beyond is unknown 
This corner stands alone.
or does it?
can it?
It's own existence can't be on its own.

Each length connects to elsewhere.
To somewhere- something- someone
To touch an else.
Stretching- stretching up, out, down, away!
The pulling, pushing- anywhere but here.

But the core, the crevice, the corner
is here, folding in.
Pulling back to the unanswerable opening.
contradicting the outward scream,
calmly beckoning a place of center.

My corner speaks this strain:
hair ripping reach for another.
Get out! But wait,
there, see that yellow butterfly
slip through into the great remain.