the most beautiful place we know

wonder what it’s like to be written on a body they’re all marked up either way: memories tattooed into the valleys that wrinkles make, words scrawled across the knots in knuckles wonder what it’s like to have been in that room where your mamma held you and you learned how to scream, learned how to grab a person’s arm when you wanted attention and when that attention became a friendship, you still screamed to be heard wonder what it’s like to walk down those streets, hands in your pocket, Singing a much different song than the one I sang when I walked down my streets, my hands swinging beside me. we’re scrolls, because we keep unraveling – there’s always more room to write. Scratch your etchings on me so they’ll become part of the décor that people have to pull back the curtains to see. I like to keep the curtains closed. you wonder what it’s like to be written on a body? it’s a little like setting the table for guests who ne...

I never knew a human being could be so very many things at once Never knew she could love the way cornflakes stick together when they're drenched The same way she loves feeling like stolen glitter when the moon comes out. Never knew she could want to be wrapped tight, feeling warm and Still want to conquer the world, boldly, valiantly, with every last nerve standing on end And every last breath lit on fire Gasoline, embers, hot tea. Never knew this human could want to be fiercely brilliant And still fiercely loving Loved Tender; Could tap into iron clad, deep in the bone strength Only for it to dissolve when she arrives in the arms of mother. I never knew a human could want everything in the world And nothing at all, Just as content to publish a library of great books As to pass her days in sunshine. To live is not final. 

calming to think we all spent our Thursday nights contemplating our chains, wondering if we’ll be trapped all our lives. all I need is a little time, a tiny bit of a moment. To wonder. and if I find a drop of anything that tastes like truth, I will never stop drinking. let my existence be ocean-wide, somersaults of salty waves, for that’s the only way any of us get someplace. I could fill the rafters if I wanted to but someone told me once you have to practice for moments like these but I never knew. so my breathless air stays trapped around my throat, and my bright-wild eyes are the only things looking up because down here feels so small and up there feels too wide. cold tiles hard benches scream my body move they say chances come in fragments but I can’t make a mosaic out of bent pieces so when the light comes in, I’ll fold my dreary knees, succumb to the warm-drench drink in the colored glass in shards at my feet say a prayer, graciously depart; unlik...

Chasing dreams. As if they're darting, impish sprites. And we, the frantic pursuers, have our nets at the ready. Nothing about life, to me, seems like a chase. Perhaps I'm too slow and so the race becomes a farce and I am left standing breathless and windblown at the starting gate. But I'd rather sink into dreams. Or nestle softly in them. Or even dance them around a crowded terrace on an ultraviolet night. I am no pursuer of dreams. Dreams are fields full of daisies and I couldn't pick all of them if I tried; the bouquet would be too decadent for my simple country table. I am. by definition, highly capable of saying nothing I mean and, in doing so, saying everything I could possibly mean. There's nothing in a dream that can't be found by lying in the sun, staring at orange-darkened eyelids.

coming upon home. like a white noise secret. like sun dancing in peripherals, making eyes shake and horizons flail, home is a pentatonic syllable: a tangent ripping through the straightest line. a call and repsonse and a flickering-flame heartbeat in a quiet hour. home blows a breeze through my nylon eyelashes, dips my spine in a warm salt bath. home is a silken cord, a radiant octave, and all the white keys  to the dark, wayward finger drums. home base. how large is home, in a full-moon sky?  if you told me, I could find my way to you. 

Italian sun stretches like taffy; breaks clean like a cold egg, sugars a city with the finest grain. and like a doused fledgling, your heart awakens with a start, trembles vigorously to shake the drops, and chirps louding, trusting and needing.

A lunar response to Giacomo Leopardi’s "Night Song of A Wandering Shepherd of Asia" My dear traveler; my wandering poet, with questions more endless still, than the eternal roads I wander --  you ask me of my path, wonder if my bright face conceals a world of weary, if my illumination of the valleys I roam exhausts my celestial soul. And in the life of a shepherd, you see my equal: a life of nothing more than the petty governance of a bestial flock, in company with the streams, the grass: a lone, fastidious toiler for a fruitless end. Each night I rise, to fill the sky, to bide the time until the sun. Surrounded by sparks in the infinite air, I watch my human flock as weary heads feel their ignoble weight, tepid hearts contemplate gloomy burdens, spinning minds present somber questions to my shabby reflection, begging that I offer them the “why” of things, believing all the while that my unearthly answer...

I crave moments not of cut gemstone but of pressed linens; of starched comfort seducing frayed nerves with blessedly cool mint-on-the-tongue static cling. tell me when you get there – to that cramped kitchen the ceilings too high the walls too plastered with nonsense poster children scattered images framed words we talk of maybe love snap peas on the table we’re all too sweaty but the night air needs our tepid flesh craves our sticky pores riled hair creased knees that collect perspiration tsunamis between our joints. we’ll rest here a while collect the day tomorrow and speak wonders in between