Tuesday, July 17, 2012



The heart is wise in it's delicacy. It's knows the moment it begins beating that one day it will stop. With this knowledge, it becomes the body's strongest muscle. It makes us pump and vibrate forward. It is our life center. It is our love center. It is the candy beneath our sugar coated rib cages. As the center of our emotional body, it fills us with idealizations that we push towards like the flow of blood beneath that it leads as well. Pumping. Pumping. Pumping up roses; coming up still born. We are children of the atom, the ID, the father, son, and holy of holy. We are children of lust and locomotion, of the mistake, mistook, and misinformed. We are singular units that flow in the sea of WE. All is illusion and desperation beneath the eyes. We lose our place. We lose our minds. We lose our virtues for what is empty and untrue. I worship you, oh idol of ideals. I cross myself over and over an bear the burdens of all my missteps. As a child true and yet sensitive I am not above lust and locomotion. My wheels turn hard with desires. The desire to hold, to be held, to belong to, with, and for. There is a cost you see. A cost for someone like me. I pay by waiting. I pay for my desires by giving up my dreams. By falling off the rails hoping to not get too far ahead of the things I love because the road ahead may be brilliant and necessary but it's also lonely. I've never been lonely, but I have also never traveled very far ahead of everyone else. I keep safe. I keep safe and learn to quiet the urges inside my chest. I make the pounding something else. The flapping of wings, a nerves tight ticking, just the body counting it's breaths,or steps, or blinks. I make the choice to stay stationary. To stay with you. You are all I want. I have decided that. I have chosen that. You are all I want to see, no matter what I make my life, it's you I want in it. This I know. It beats heavy inside my chest. It makes me anxious and afraid. I choose you...another outside myself. The only other I want to keep, and somewhere echoing in the canyon of my chest I hear the chant. I hear heart's spirit singing out to me. It's a warning...a warning sung sweetly. So delicate the heart can be in it's wisdom. It's hear tapping on my shoulder to spread the awareness and I begin to fall. This demon in me that craves my life...that feels suffocated by everything I keep and do and am stands at attention. It crosses the street daring life to happen. Willing it to come out and push me forward. And I begin to rotate outwardly. Beyond my body I see the universe of connections. Planets and satellites of life surround me in heavyweight. The cycling forward and out, the beginning of some remapped war begins. The war for me. The war inside my chest. It echoes...it echoes...it echoes. It sings: I can't belong to you. I can't belong to you. I can't be yours. I'm anything but your kind. It sings. A welling springs up to my eyes. I wonder if it's just this moment now. This moment now that causes this lack of definition. Is it my intuition buzzing or am I projecting my fears into space? I have love, but can I keep it. I have someone, but are they here when I'm alone. In this dense space where I have chosen them...am I keeping them alive or spinning them out? The heart knows how to pump and push and live for today because today is all it has. This urgency, this finite arena, this subtle chest's fragility is both the organ and a treasure. Buried deep within it sings...it sings...it sings our blood into orbit. Propels our lives forward into our chosen spaces. The caged bird lives and sings and finds a way to adapt, but unhinged is my certainty. I am seeking. Seeking the urgency to appreciate this today. Any today. To be wise in my own delicacy and find away to pump and push myself out of all this. To understand the significance to all that this is. This life, these choices, this love. We are all desperate. Made so by our creators and our creations. We are desperately looking for ourselves, our other half, our tribe, our spirits. We are children lost on the wheel. The wheel is the world and we spin our stories as life urgently. I want to know the fullness beneath all this. All that this is. This life, these choices, this love. I am a seeker. Seeking with urgency the strength to live with my own delicacy in the sea of WE.

Sunday, March 4, 2012


::To Bursting::

  They say the world will end in fire. A ball of divine rage will fall and burn us all down. The big bad wolf says he'll blow my house down and he's happy to do it with a smile. Disasters can be polite. They can hold you close and make promises while they keep their fingers crossed in their pockets. They can love you today, promise tomorrow, and then let the whole world around you burst into fire and politely forget to pull you out of the blaze. I've always been burning. It's always been burning here. A wire runs through my hothouse flower. I never feel warm enough.
   The body heats under pressure. It's pressed between the pages of tenderness and curiosity. Tenderness writes the line between closeness and lies. An unspoken tightrope of tension stalks the moments between every kiss, every silence, every proclamation. The shadow of a smile says I'm hiding something. The admittance of the only and absolute makes me think you like to play. I don't like disasters no matter how polite they are on your doorstep.
   They take their hats off and wipe their feet so well mannered before they lay themselves out on your bed long enough for you to want them to be yours. I can't always tell the difference between a disaster, a dream, or a definite. They all attract me the same way. They all dare me to jump into them. And I do.
I jump when things are that perfect temperature between what feels right, seems wrong, and can't be discerned no matter how close it happens to lay. If I were Eve I would have taken the apple easily. I would have left Adam for the snake and never looked back. If I were Red Riding Hood I'd have given the wolf my basket and invited him to feast on my insides because I have a fascination with anything I can be tempted by.
     I dream of a love that can keep me safe. Create a warmth that envelops me and feels honest and real. Real enough for me to truly see it as it lays itself out in offering. I hate the fall, but have a tendency to choose the apple. I hate the bite back, but have found myself drawn to the sharpest of teeth. I am aware. I am my own snake. Always watching, always waiting to tempt myself onto the tightrope. My fear is my poison and my antidote.
    I know how to love but never learned to trust. I like the myth that builds beneath the skin, between the sheets, under the touch. I let myself fall under the pressurized words and fingers of my disaster, my dream, and my definite. I spread the coolness, I seduce the wandering heart, I create this chain. This chain that binds you to me. My grip on all things is tenuous. Always ready to slip away if the fingers become teeth, and the dream bursts into fire and politely forgets to pull me out. I love uneasily though I keep my own tenderness steady. I play the hands I'm good at, and manipulate the weak parts when I have to. All of this to avoid damage, but it is too late. We're swimming now. We're swimming in our own fires we don't care to put out.
   This is how love begins. We're always burning and bare. Afraid to commit, to be close, to believe and yet we can't resist. We want a taste of that apple, we want to feel the that we are on the edge of disaster at any moment and give into it as it lays itself out before us. Disaster buried beneath a body, a body that rises and rides itself on top of us. We want to burn. Burn out our dreams, our fears, the voices in our heads that say he's hiding something, he's not for you, this can't be real. And we do. We open the door. We marvel at how politely he strides into our lives. Marvel at how it feels like the space he takes up in your bed was made for him.
    I look down from the tightrope as the net burns away. I know I'm going to jump. The hissing fear is calls me to tension. My body spins the hoops and reasons why the thin rope of separation is the only way to stay safe. I hear and see all the reasons why I might be a fool. A fool alone. A fool. I know I'm going to jump..and I do.

Monday, January 23, 2012


::The Thirty Third::

  We all need space. We move through it. We find ways to fill it up, to take it away, to make it known. We are full of space. Between our fingers and teeth. Between our eyes and deeper within. We are from the world of the infinite. The world beyond dreams and illusions. We pulse, we prophetize, we procrastinate. Meeting the divine isn't easy in the real world. We get glimmers and impressions, but the full scope of it is elusive.
   I live in a world of dreams. As the great illusionist I like to play tricks. Now you see me, now you don't. Now you feel me, now you won't. I like to hover. I keep my real parts afloat slightly above my body, far enough to be out of reach and out of context. I wake up asleep. I choose to drown my senses in smoke and haze because I hate hardness. I hate rages and fires and filth. I hate the tar pits of the world because you can't just wade through them. You have to pass by and you have to sink and you have to work your way out with more than just charm, wit, and the gift of appeal.
   I've begun sinking. The dream world grows heavy and flashes. There is this drumming and crack. This rolling becomes my thunder, and bangs loudly in the din. My heart always so close to forgetting the rest of me. My heart always so close to love. It beats deeply hoping to cover all my senses in blood and fire. The rage of the heart is poetic and proud. It works unsteadily in me. I am just a few degrees cooler than normal, so I can brush off the tremors and keep my sights from unwinding. There is always something else between us. Us being the eternal object of my affections. A face that changes, a body that fuses differently, a man today, a man for now, a man for the moment.
   There comes that moment where we aren't men anymore. We are lines to be drawn. We are silence unspoken. We are apart together and we wear our lies like kisses. We make deep impressions, we fill our voids with ourselves. We can be so many things and yet any moment we can burn down to nothing. The heart shakes it's walls and thumps out it's declarations of blood and fire. It says that this is everything. That this has to mean everything. I find my coolness even in the lover's volcano. I can feel the heat and find comfort. I don't burn. I don't rage. I can't make an everything out of a man.
   I know it's me. The underlying secret of it all is me. I lose my ideals early. I feel the empty space that can't be touched. That no man or moment has had the length of arm or emotion to embrace. This vacant space has turned on it's neon sign, but no one is allowed inside. I know it's me. I rest my loving self in the comfort of ideas and the ideas of happiness with another. I pull the curtain back. My vision sharp and reptilian.  The snake in me clings to the dragon. The dragon divine gives me glimmers and sensations and visions of the infinite space within and without. It's remote yes, but it's boundless.
    A lick of the dragon's tail fills me with dreams and movement. It strikes that perfect pitch beyond and beneath me all at once. It's a silent push toward. It also is the truth about me. The kiss of a moment, on lips inviting and real fills me with dreams yes, and dread. I can curl up and lick and taste the future of an us and a we and a together. I can plan. I can calculate. I can want so much that my good parts just flood out like a fountain. Like a gift. Like a mistake.
   If I give and love and create an available personage what will it be worth? A surplus of kisses to mask the distance? An open heart to within the visions of betrayals unseen ? I know it's me. I tend to race. I give up as much as I give out. Perhaps I know the truth about men. Perhaps I know how to catalog a moment honestly. Perhaps I'm all wrong in all ways. My dream world hangs heavy. It's weighed down now when it used to float above. There is no smoke. There is no fire. There is the coolness of myself. My skin sparkles with salt and hard on my chest is the weight of the dragon. The truth about me strikes out like a map. The topography of mistakes I make gets colored at the edge. This territory of endings and beginnings and never endings continues to create itself.
     This sadness is living. It is the washing out of all that was and all that will never be. I am the great magician. I alchemize my tears and blood and instability into a future. A future alone or with a man. A future that tastes of dreams and becoming. The dream world falls like tears and rain and sinks itself into view. It is all I can see. It is the truth about me. It is all I can see. This coolness, this need, this magic is me. It is my truth on fire.