i am neither certain nor uncertain
at once you may feel
too much of any one thing
or too little
(leave it all behind)
clashing of footsteps on the stairs just
behind you
remember when you used to think hands
would grab your ankles going down the basement stairs
just like the
fridge door shutting in the middle of the night
and
should you be afraid of the dark
or not
(leave it all behind)
its not the same sky
just
the same breath of dark
where it all went
im living in the space between walls
pressed between the drywall and the insulation
like a flower in a journal page
it keeps me still
it keeps me pretty
in the silence i can remember all the things ive never done
in the stillness i can feel my hands create what they never have
to want for more
to blink the metronome over and over again
to wonder where it all went
im living in the cracks in the sidewalk
next to a weed that smells nice but has nasty vines
i eat dirt when im bored
i wiggle through the earth like a worm
i have big ideas but
my hands dont exist
in the sunlight i dry up and sigh and sparkle
in the passing shade i close my eyes and sleep
never wanting more
never passing the time but always feeling time pass
never knowing where it all went
i want for more,
somehow
real mountains, distant
just over the mountain:
no windows, just air rippling through your hair.
a dog yapping, woman sitting on the front step, house behind her.
puzzle pieces face-up on the table, unconnected.
yarn bowl like a face, watching, unblinking.
faded spiderman pillow on my lap and pulsing music.
misty mountains in the distance, blocked by the sky.
trees so far away i can pick them up and blow them away
like a dandelion wish.
just distantly:
dice, rolling to a stop outside the indian restaurant.
cars, engines revving at earsplitting volume, ready to race.
water, spraying from the fountain as you hold me in your arms, my feet dangling.
and then it's all unwound
into the horizon, and the light bleeds
back into our eyes - awake from all the dreaming.
wondering
how much of it could be real.
i dont know if you like poems
if my hands were stardust,
would you still sort through them -
find the good amongst the bad -
make constellations with the brightest stars
while i lie down and watch?
would you twist the world around your finger
like a ball on a string?
i swam through a thousand oceans just to get here,
and my limbs just need a rest.
i tuck my face against your neck.
breathe in the night sky.
i cant forget this, not when your
pulse flashes under my skin.
become something with me.
god, i dont think youd get it
so
join me in the sky, trap yourself between the earth and the moon.
you're so good.
I'm afraid I'll break you.
3.20.24
summer in winter
summer in winter .
still here: running out of words
quicksand, feeling again
sick maybe, just for one day
(i hope i say the right thing) -does it matter?
consequently,
colored pencil walls scratching against the sky
mixed with cloudsoaked future things (made up)
just stories i write
,summer in winter or winter in summer or
More punctuation.
I could barely make a phone call today
, or cook a simple meal
, which means im not sure i
m ready i d
The snow never touches the ground.
hanging on to things
I shouldn't
plastic silverware, handwritten notes,
birds in my brain, heart full of holes,
and all
this tomorrow (tomorrow) made up and swimming in circles
- unbelievably good, unbelievably bad
, all in my head (head)
springsummer : sunlight in winter
greyskies
you know the darkness?
(clouds overhead)
the greyness. when it rains
we sleep under this sky,
letting rain fall in between each breath,
oozing between our waking thoughts and
our dreams.
like darkness.
shadows starved -
wrapping their hungry hands around
the light, squeezing the water out,
letting it fall.
freezing rain.
reflecting that darkness back,
seeing faces you don't recognize.
(rain-soaked teeth)
gnawing on the flesh,
cold and too proud.
solitary.
rain light.
greying skin,
watermarks across the bone.
you know the darkness.
rain between the sinew and blood.
flooding the system:
grey sky in your skull seeping into your dreams.
rain water,
mirrors,
clouds overhead.
spinning, at least for now
tell me how you're seeing your world,
and i'll tell you how i see mine,
right now
.
it's spinning - good spinning, not bad -
like a
dancer spun away from their partner,
knowing they have something to come back to
(i just don't know what yet)
,
isn't that the excitement of it all?
that i can spin and not know
the next movement, but i don't have to, yet
.
metaphors - can't you taste them -
i want to picture it all, want to
travel somewhere with just the thought,
thinking
that maybe the next steps of the dance won't be so scary
,
even when i look back
.
mirrors and paper mache, is what i feel like,
right now
.
like if a door was opened i'd get sucked through
the vortex without a second thought,
maybe
that's not such a bad thing
.
so, yes, i'm spinning, if you're wondering
,
good spinning, not bad.
just the swirling of lights like chandelier-dropped stars
until something catches hold of me,
eventually
,
we'll see
.
gold sun quiet dream
not quite daylight,
imagine the way the light would
paint sunstreaks across your face.
noses, whispers,
not quite morning if the sun won't wake.
maybe eyes lidded with sleep,
maybe wonder and starshine.
warm under the sheets,
cold air and window light
making goosebumps across your arms.
shadows in the not quite light,
half faces and stamps of gold and dark,
maybe a soft smile and a sigh.
waking with the sun.
seeing it all in the colors of dreams
in a place that doesn't exist,
a moment where the sun meets the sky,
where the light licks the windowsill,
where the wind arches your back.
light melting into your skin,
glowing like midnight rain,
not quite awake.
three & driving south
hidden in between panes of glass
light from the sky &
three-pointed eyes
underwater listen to me
it's spiraling into : nonsense
sun. winter. watersong.
clouds overdue, done,
and splinters on a switchblade
like blinding sun out a car window,
face pressed against the glass like a child again
again
again
when nothing is yours.
index finger wrapped in a silk thread
don't forget, tied too tight and connecting
--
thread trailing under the pebbled road
, across mountains, back again .
teeth pressed too closed bleeding lip
like a fight that didn't happen &
tears in the corners of your eyes
but nothing's wrong
fire a little too close like scorched skin
molten. sinking. .
rough draft, sketch it again
. remold this face too scared
my hands aren't my hands
say it, :
do you believe?
hollow beating heart too soft
pull the thread : unwind.