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Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Slats 4.30

Lately I have only been composed of late nights.
Porches scattered with people being and learning amidst gusts of wind
We are vast. We breathe air made for us, silent tribute to vitality.
Moons awaken us asunder and we ebb and flow in pieces.

So scared are we, sitting amongst branches and concrete and laughter
Passing spirit in smoke, giving what we cannot take.
We slip slow and steady here, for time asks no questions
Sky falls to shadow, but we are not for Day, not now.

Rain sprinkles like wine on our hands and feet and we scream.
We drink what Night has to offer us, sipping frozen hope
Ours is many and one together, rolled up in paper thin destiny.
And we know nothing other than this, trying to be who we are.

Sunday, April 21, 2013


the moon opens and there is thunder in my gut.
"speak to me, goddess", but there are no words.
I weep for things unseen.
Lost. I am a fog, misted across wisps of smoke
twisted sacrament, blistering.
 I turn and take and pour and scream
I am still whole.
the ground taunts me with closeness and wind weaves through my fingers
I reach for her to take my skin and make me silver.

This is the game we play: vangrants cast
sovereign states pushed near by wounds and time
destined for places yet seen.
we are One, gathered here in secret.

Saturday, April 20, 2013

To the Earth's Child:

I know what you are by what you see
leaves tanlged into strands of twisting wind
and you see sunsets, dirt-turned-gold
destruction gilded, glittered, gone
we are all and we soon return.
broken wood sits like a splintered crown
atop a turned head; I trust in things blinded and I trust in you.
and what a beautiful you: molded by gusts of feeling and rays of light
shifting, turning, changing, being amidst those static slips.
endure for us when we have wilted
when we've forgotten, tell us of our shape.


And I know forgetting's easy
picking slim along side roads and alleys
let memory slide, let it fade
into sloppy tumbles of weeds and grass.
but pick me up; there is no thorn too sharp
to prick you into red-white feeling
reminded of you, slow steeped into strands
skipped over on the loom.
overhead sky kneaded rough by steamy breath
136 bodies nestled into branches, reaching
making shapes you made once
when you knew to be what you could.
I have half a spine to tell you
"it is lost, it is new"
but words whispered on wind make sounds like the sea
the sea never remembers what she washes clean
you, tear-stained and salt dried
on the banks beneath the ground.