I equate my life to tiny intervals,
Too complicated in design to comprehend.
I become impatient clicking-
Ticking
Hands away and
I cannot rush the day.
I settle myself on tough equations
And with resignation
I exclaim,
"I cannot know all worlds."

Cos every portion of you
Seems to exist elsewhere,
Or otherwise too far in the back of my mind.
Like counterfeit dreams created
For conversation,
I categorize and paint you,-
A trick my mind plays to deceive me.

I could spend days searching skies
For all the answers in attempts to ease my mind,
While asking voiceless shadows and
Tingling feelings to give me the right words.

I'd blame fate and reject guilt?

No, when you're upset all islands sink,
And I shouldn't clasp hands around

Fairytales and myths of sorts
For guidance
Nor
shall I shift mind and deliberate the problem of time.
Because all thunderclaps roll back to Thor's great fists.

But as before and always still,
Altar calls remain for cowards, I'll never bury emotion there.
If love require kneeling,
You'll find me at your bed

i'll keep silent if you stay.

i'll mark my words with yours,

and seal my lips with pearls.

i'll drench myself in patterns

that change each time,

tasting sweet, and then sometimes

bitter- (like a wine)

it's different?

-new--,

than it was before.

and i travel trails with my fingers:

navigating craters and hills i travel now with palms.

my palms grope territories that seem so familiar,

sentimental.

cherished.

I never asked for anything.

snow gold could be replaced with cellophane,

so long as your promise is the same.

cardboard is just a safe as mortar and brick,

if your arms around me is what comes with it.

I'll change my name

no matter my mood.

the reassurance that you're making a place for us,

based on desires of your own.

come home to dinner every night.

cos in my mind the perfect day is as good as i make it.

ive got a box of cards with your name on them all,

that make promises. I cant forget what they say, because

you repeat them through your kisses.

And when I hold you at arm's length,

it is not to push you out that far:

I am only holding you at a distance,

that I might truly see that face and

all that you are.

Up close, I am afraid, that I am blinded

by the way I blur you,

beautiful colors and fragmented shapes,

an abstract.

However, the colors are just as vibrant

where I hold you out there,

so nearness must never be an issue.

we stub ourselves from tiny moons that stick out
past the edges of our toes.
and i drag my heels against the carpet,
static surging up my spine,
and the lightning bolts I will create against
the hair on the back of your arms.

and faces that each other do not know
burn in the back of our minds.
the past doesn't matter, right.
we cling to each other,
nose to nose.

At this distance, I am feeling
the coldness of my cheek pressed up
against the glass
of windows high on second floors,
breath beating and vanishing,
sucking and blowing out my chest.
I hear the whisper of you sleeping,
even though you know not I am there.

I'm waiting patiently for any word,
until them I will sit on the outside
looking in, lurking shadows,
hoping you never see me there.

This is not to alarm you,
there's just a curiosity about
the twitching of your eyelids,
and what visions loom themselves
in colored threads under there.

If only I could learn to merge.

I would travel all the miles,


even if it is to nowhere.

emotionally attached
to numbers,
all around.
the painted shapes and lines,
of symbols and sounds.
representing years and weights
and casting shadows on the ground,
measuring the passage of the time
I waited around,

for your forgiving presence,
and how you crunch your face

when all the world opposed
is just one not-so-witty man.

you leap like lions at my distaste.

Your life is plastic.

Molded and condensed,
shaped and cut

by the hands of your elders.

modeled only after themselves.


Good luck in your life and all that you do. I hope that the world eats you alive.

If all you needed was attention, you could have gotten it another way. You can wax poetic all you want, but it just might push me farther away.

Everyone's got a bone to pick with the weatherman, but what about the sky?

I've never been one for just predicting-it's dangerous, careless; and I've got my
head
screwed
on
too
tight.

I could read the maps all day,
but I'd rather just pick up leave and run.
I try not to be bitter when I wake up,
but all that
bird-chirping-business
while its
raining-cats-and-dogs
has got me spinning in my mind
and closing jagged doors,
and pulling shades on the
windows 'til their tight,
shut-up, closed-down.

girl, you talk a big game. Let me remind you how much those you are trying to convince talk as well.

You can't get 'em with your mouth. So how else will you convince them?

in my cave i will escape

fabric walls and billowy floors.

Cos he's always been my chicago,
the place where all the midwest girls feel new.

I've traveled his trails before,
and taken my shoes off somewhere along
his way. And in the heat of all his lakeside
runoff days, I've pulled my shirt above my
head, and bunched up my jeans a bit.
He's got these entrancing ideas of
bigger places, for their minds to wander,
far out beyond the gutters
and shingles of cookie-cutter homes.

When we're with him the past is gone,
floating away on a skyscraper,
on new trails,
on birthmarks.

There's a crater in the center
of my favorite quilt. And when
I venture its landscape,
I question whether I am a danger,
environmentally.

I pull the threads from the corner
and I feel like I am unraveling the
sky;
forgetting its unknown creator,
ignoring any possible, artful
design.

and then I wonder whose front
lawn held this blanket once,
with sod stains, and faded scents
of spring.

I mount upon adventures here
upon this patterned quilt.
A patchwork of crops from
different sowers, this is the marketplace
display for all their work

I sip upon my wines of dust
that have been aging in this
room of mine.
I breathe in their scents and
savor their tastes;
the comfort that they give.
and yet the later tinge come
morning, from taking far too
much in.

So I'll let old habits die hard.

and tabletops they sparkle,
now, with my reflection shining
back at me. I wonder while I
see myself, does this mirror
here have more room than just
for me? two plates and settings,
I'll make for it some new company.

i drown out the world for a while
with the drifting sea of you.
Your tides rushing in and pulling me
further from shore than I
had originally intended,

I swim hard to return, but
only as tease; your waves pummel
me, refreshing. I am a capsized
wreck, but always ready
for a late night swim.

and hopefully,
far away from shore.

Everywhere in the world could be
more perfect and beautiful than here
but there's no chance in my leaving home,
knowing the chances that you'll
come back around.

I'd rather just stay here.
Wait out all this cold.
I know you're coming home.

Mountains and skylines,
flatlands and faces
I'd like to see them all,
but the chances I'd find you in them
are likely very small.

I'd rather just stay here.
Wait out all the storms.
I know you're coming home.

Pretty girls and sun,
beaches, and sea breeze
I'd like to feel that skin,
but I doubt I'd catch your eye
no matter how hard I'd try.

I'd rather just stay here.
Even if all you know is my name.
I know you're coming home.

work in progress.

Our god is not hidden, sitting up in lofty reaches
speaking pivotal words that only few
will hear. His preachers speak not empty words,
that fill their pockets from their speeches
of damnation due to pleasure
or of death from satisfaction of our nature.

our god is not controversial,
only his means of speaking are preferential;
yet his followers are all.

and oh the true preacher:
chest gleaming and beading with sweat
as he crosses the stage to orchestrate the perfect set.

and yet another:
product not yet finished, tools in hand
brushing strokes onto her canvas rested on a stand.