Some cobwebs dusted, fresh paint on the walls. I tend to spend too much time thinking, but that hasn't been the case recently.Recently, I've been coasting, avoiding too much feeling ( Read more... )

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Paper planes whirl. A cuckoo sounds. Sparrow-throat, the mime clocks. A running gag. Television set. Family time, becoming ( Read more... )

Finding this sweet spot is like learning syntax.

We iterate the process in hopes of finding the next

nearest common denominator,

each point of convergence at once a new division requiring a new

rallying call to arms; body, mind, and soul

set a teeter, a constant reassembly.

Like you, I rather like it that way.

writ in in the aftermath of

your fingers smooth against the nape of my neck;

a smile curled, like ferns

in the sea, pressing tight into

a careful heart-

beat; one tries not to yield.

the best part is that we do yield, easily, but not without some trickery.

of course, the other part of this is what comes next. This question that looms suddenly and ( Read more... )

There is something sweet and slow

in the long arches between trysts and turns in the hay, your voice a deep resonance

against the vocal stretches of my monologue.

We have amplitudes that meet

on particular frequencies of the invisible blackbox

that connects us

to messenger, to Skype and Facebook and then to you,

through this syntax of phrases

coded ( Read more... )

( Read more... )

I have been frustrated.
of late, the impressions have inked
indelible words I am looking
to see.

words are difficult to pick.

perhaps being able to pick is the first step.
it is a process.

from rocky vowels, pulled-apart syllables, passive aggression, active
verbs, added
at just the moment you/I admit
non-indifference.

till then, all is ( Read more... )

Poem

How you make me feel is a question I want to run from.
There is a holiness in the way we see ourselves. We wish to believe.
Pagan as you are, you do this too.

I live with a disquiet dissonance.
The broken spells of our hearts they give us no easy way to stop.
Excitement has ejected itself from its orbit of too many suns, each one
Greater ( Read more... )

Night thoughts
are deep
and silent.
Quick
to slip.
Knots in my hair,
shivering,
slides over my eyes.
 

Already the hot season. Sandstone, brick, mortar in the ground. A bricolage of surfaces--all rough, brittle, edged. Long shadows of grass fingers, bent over; light scatters one view across all sides ( Read more... )