the tenderness was appreciated,
This Sunrise—saw Humanache Quenched.
i scratched, grasped, and still…
we awoke two skins,
eight limbs,
lamp-light left to dim the sin:
unfolding like an arthritic cat today,
i greet the halfway gray afternoon:
and i wonder,
a humanache? heartbreak? or present tense?
I could study in a nuclear bunker,
anxious at the time of the world-view end,
persuasion happens:
and women happen, too.
full magnolia blooms —in june,
before true expectation of summer realizes herself
in unfolding of present into pastime memories.
full magnolia blooms —in november,
inexperience and poisoned influence,
nostrils caked & dopamine spiked^
but
autumn
created her warrior in me.
dying, dancing, freezing and so:
full magnolia blooms — in january,
wind chills enough for the shaking of my skeleton and a social life
enough to sustain me: a binging socialite, but:
full magnolia blooms —bloom,falter,expand,change,fall,fade,die:
so now: yogis bow to seal intention,
jesus pleads and buddha’s chanting,
hope so corporeal the girl is panting,
on an inhale, her shadow goes dancing…
and me?
ohm, shanti, shanti, shanti.
i whisper to the sky how,
i love the lines of you,
the photography of you
the way that you move.
maybe it’s the mexican martini,
i’ve only had half of one and i feel like
i’ve given away almost a whole of my heart.
what was left to give in
shattered pieces
joyfully.
mine, yours,
we’ll grow together as the second hand clicks onward,
honestly.
the future that i see is chaotic,
but blends beautifully,
maybe my immune system misses yours but
i could speak a thousand words and none of them would be as sincere as:
when i look at you,
and i look at you,
when i realize you see it in how i observe,
beautiful,
it’s all so colorful, so brilliant, so desperate and grasping and
lemons and
l,
o,
v,
e, in time after this hour chimes.
my compass may not point north,
but it always points straight.
it’s strange as a scientist
to walk in and recognize someone,
not their hair,
maybe not their eyes just luminous smile,
the way time twines and untwines our threads into ropes,
and maybe
an anchor maturing from growing pains.
but i do.
serpent to my staff,
i have been waiting all my life to run into your arms,
pull your hair to
to what
the ultimate expression of lust?
rutting and wanting and wanting more.
your text,
so small, simple, that one heart pleading question;
“Where Are You”
little girl,
tore my eyes into useless, choking teardrops.
i’m not a phoenix,
my tears can’t heal and don’t suck away at your sorrow,
but i wish they did.
little bird,
i wish your wings weren’t broken and your beak were unbruised.
perch with me,
and look at the world a little longer,
a breath longer,
several heartbeats at least.
enough to see earthly color
and your reflection in the window of my eyes.
weak heartbeats fleeting with
sun-rays still beating upon tin roofs but
its almost-evening sun,
and the terry cloth mothers love while,
wire mother monkeys stick their babies with coat-hanger guns.
i’m standing bare and merciless,
as rheese monkeys and american children become
other without reason & speed.
tachycardia stretches out and little lambs become suicide bombs,
who made the mistake of putting on shoes and schools and
cutting their hair.
wind up coils of anxiety because
ashes,ashes we’re
all c-u-t down.
writing, righting, gone
if you know what i mean.
the monster inside your head gnawing his teeth at
your written flesh,
s/l/-ashes your style,
he has no care,
for the care it took to put it there.
to have the courage to say it,
or write it
or paint it or sing it or scream it or gouge it
into skin with a needle, tattooed.
the monster that steals
i want this, and i feel this and i think that
from mouths still breathing& painful truth
out of chests still h e a v i n g.
the monster who steals the courage to
express anything at-all,
much less:
the things that really need to be said.
(i love you.)
i’m not sure how i’ve ended up
because there are no endings made,
or finished in cities full of alleyways and feral cats.
hiding under tires to show
you will survive and
i will survive,
and the land will bloom again.
no endings but the present unwraps
little trinkets from
50 cent machines.
in grocery stores and upcoming haircuts,
shorn in time for spring.
and the normal non-noise of
yardwork down the street before
mariachi music begins and afternoon presents
pop open like a brew top.
i am just a writer,
but a queen of words,
sighs and cries and orgasms poured into pages,
surviving digital degradation and heart-breaking
hurricanes.
born on a river to be borne out to sea,
returned only to
sail through this life because
i am,
T H E
CAPTAIN
and i thrive in
t
i
d
e
s of change.
i take down my history and make it ours.
writing the beat of my spoken song.
inform deformed thoughts,
spew metaphors like a
gum-ball machine whose glass i smashed,
chew on it.
Sparkling chain link fence installation, by sculptor Soo Sunny Park, in collaboration with sound artist Spencer Topel
Paris, France
© AnyDirectFlight
I’m scared of commitment and of belonging to someone. I like independence. I also loved to be loved and to call someone my own.
