"first floor ideals"

the post-it on the hotel bed
promised 
a clean slate
so I lay my hair and body across
and breathed in
all the others 
who had come before
with the same hope
of new starts
in dark places

"first floor ideals"

the post-it on the hotel bed
promised
a clean slate
so I lay my hair and body across
and breathed in
all the others
who had come before
with the same hope
of new starts
in dark places

"tender trap"

shifting horizon 
swallow body and spirit 
bittersweet capture
"tender trap"

shifting horizon
swallow body and spirit
bittersweet capture

dairy bar poetry

hot fudge sundae in a rainstorm

translate

how will we translate
in skin
how loud may I moan
when you touch me

may I try to breathe
when you’re inside

should we make new stories
should we close the door

shoveling

desire and time
can be lost
in folds of sun and fog
before you realize
you were missing
that treasured inner voice
you find yourself
shoveling
macaroni and cheese and snow 
as another season leads away 
from who you were
meant to be

no form

no form without measure
within pleasure
empty stockings
tossed to night winds
luxuriant sin

color variance without breath
within chest
barren walls
lost waterfalls
decorated halls

counting pages til next bloom
within moon
forgotten sound
a bird has found
we are bound

"tender trap"

shifting horizon 
swallow body and spirit 
bittersweet capture

"tender trap"

shifting horizon
swallow body and spirit
bittersweet capture

but it hurts

rereading parts you don’t understand
but knowing they’re beautiful
swallowing whole images
wrenching your heart open again

I hate when my skin is ill-fitting and the shadows in my house move against my will while music plays that only I seem to be able to hear. Removing volcanic protrusions in the middle of an ocean leaves me adrift on turbulently stifled laughter bordering on hysterical tears. Will the morning window pane frame the day in a way that makes sense or will it be another abstract sunrise when I awake? 

predicated

each step leads nowhere in particular
treading macadam
getting through each day
by the skin of my teeth
whatever that actually means
since I’m worn clean through to bone

sort of, almost
at least I feel flayed

moving feels rebellious

yesterday hovers like cigar smoke
sickly sweet and oddly endearing
while I dream of the fresh taste of tomorrow
rooted to the same damn spot
stuck as it were
until one last push

with traffic bearing down
as a gentle reminder

moving is necessary

anointed

anointed with oils and spice
has proved meaningless
yet I am succulent
and ready for either
making love or embalming
whichever comes my way

the-ravens-song-photography:

Damsel Fly



wordummager:
no hallelujahsin fey thickets and bramblesbut in the quiet humof a damselfly’s voicefrom a twig’s edgeheaven speaks to water and rocks below

the-ravens-song-photography:

Damsel Fly

wordummager:

no hallelujahs
in fey thickets and brambles
but in the quiet hum
of a damselfly’s voice
from a twig’s edge
heaven speaks 
to water and rocks below