little sleeping thoughts.
a jutting break, like scavanged glass
taken from the eyes to reflect
the void in all its breath-taking
raging
repercussions, sliding down
into the empty doors, these empty houses
we built for the purpose of making
and repurposing
our souls,
as we kick up dust
only to watch it settle.
a hunger, built into form
trailing its sleeves in this filth
we made peace with
and entombed our greivances
to remind us
to keep us humble
in face of extravagance
in the face of success, after
years of starvation
created a heart out of scraps
and scrap metal.
a collection of faces
still stand, perfectly spaced,
delicately in shadow,
outside our window.
a soft dip, in the absence of
a slowly rotating cusp
that some days hangs back,
sometimes stands besides
and sometimes, drags our limbs forwards
in an unintentional
yet necessary persuit
of absolute
honesty
in expression
even if its hidden
within colors and shapes and lines..
bird song and harpsicord
black inks and coyote skull.
the images may be fanciful, the words
full of whimsy.
the toys we built are to help us
face the crushing weight we carry.
there is no accurate discription,
there is no definitive explanation,
the abstracts carry as much emotion
as the prescision may attempt to capture.
the diversion may be just as meaningful
as the descriptive accuracy.
and the masks are built to create
like all things expressive.. to face
or to gift,
we translate the best we can
we try to explain, or understand,
or hint or hide within new ways of contending
with the less easily shared
between one and the next
between us and ourselves
or for no other reason but the burning
and the dire need.. to take action
when we ourselves
are less gifted
in social dancing..
just to say
from me to you
and to be.
its many things..these lines that form letters
shapes in the vision of internal..
its my gift to you
its my breath, misting glass
its my fight against silence, entombed
its my therapist and my comfort
its my appreciation, spinning circles
its all the senses expanded outwards
its my strength, holding me up
its all my weakness, and the frailty cut in half
its my fears, holding me down as i dream
its the sweetness i taste, and the bitterness
its the process, holding out my limbs in dance
its my best language, and perhaps my worst
its how i deal, how i walk, how i stay
and how i show my love
it is my rage repurposed
its the expression of my passions
for this world, for all within it
for the little things starved i want to feed
its the overlooked - the small details gleaned
that give me the most joy, and startle me back
it is my faith, but never a religion, keeping my heart
its my seething, and my pacing along lone alleys
its how i show my gratitude for the things that touch me
how i face history, and contend with the things that hurt
it is how i survive..and how i give back
as i can
and it is very necessary. it is a need
or the shifting wings within
would devour me..
some people perhaps have no choice
they are driven, either by some jewel before them
or due to that which haunts them
which walks behind them
at an even pace,with a crocodile smile
and they only manage
to hurry one step ahead
or perhaps, its alittle of both
a sheer joy, a heartbreaking, the most urgent feeling
the need to translate to something
that makes sense, that feels real, or unreaal
that holds the weight that matches the worth
that can make those abstractions
into something new, something with equivelance
something familiar. or something reborn
the ragged wings that hold us
the tethers that contain us
the magnificence around that drives us
the silence that moves in music
the little draw within our palms
the currency of living, and creating
new steps in this neverending
twisted rusted staircase
never cease, even when they hold bricks
within our paths and on our backs
we are reminded
like all the keys we collected
there is always a door that fits them..
always a branch that alone
can inspire a whole new set of words..
and the empty space that lives
somewhere between trees and moon and ribs
holds our hands through the darkness
in lines of ink and typewriter keys
sifting through the hourglass sands
while we dream out the vagrant visions
dropped from the tip of our tounge
like a snake twice bitten, once rewritten
endlessly perfected and yet haphazardly executed
as we are.