just as you pass,
i stop in walk
to ‘llow you rush over me;
your touch,
from distance, calmed
to cool the skin
as heart, rising, rises in cage
for feel of you.
your shadow-movement,
motioned a’top and ‘neath
the hands, the palms,
knucks, forearms,
cheeks, face,
body-whole.
i
inhale you,
hoping fore to know you i
may hold you inside,
filling lungs and chest
and cavity of the mind
with what radiance
you wash the skies..
i exhale,
pushing me from me to you,
from pit of lung and chest,
vitality of mind,
as, crushed, the cage collapses
so to ‘llow
my wind play ‘mongst yours
so you may know me same.
Posts published in “Poems”
He reaches to her.
She shakes him off and walks away.
His head lays limp to clavicles
and he walks the other way.
She shouts something he cannot hear
from across the room, but
he’s already deep within himself
again.
A draft falls, sideways, across him
and he lowers his shoulders to the floor,
knees bending so as not to break,
and his heels lift off.
Giving him his distance, she
feels she’s done right by him.
Why should she behave any differently
than he has? Is he really that upset?
Why is he curling up on the floor?
He leaks insanity like a steamy pipe.
She continues walking, changing her
alignment so to walk against the wall.
Perhaps a door in this room will show itself
before she meets the tightness of a corner.
He raises his head to wipe his nose
with collar of his shirt.
She follows his movements, hoping
he’s alright. She breathes.
He tucks his head between him and
the floor again, hoping she
doesn’t see him. He holds his chest
with lungs, inside, so not to cry
anymore.
She moves her face but not her eyes from
him. She opens her lips, saying
silence across the room.
He collects himself, staying on the floor
in hopes she moves so he may counter
without falling prey to their bonds.
She turns her eyes, breaking from
the stagnant air and he moves,
settling to a squat. She breathes.
He gives her his breath as all
he has and she breathes in.
He waits for her to release
him from her lungs,
though he wishes stay.
She laughs.
He tilts his head, looking
to her as though she jabbed
a knife into his abdomen.
She widens her lips
and bares a bit of teeth.
He raises himself in her smile,
heels flat against the floor.
She turns her arm so palm
lays flat, outstretched
towards him.
He runs to her. She
welcomes him.
At the request of the murdered boy’s parents, the crowds
walked silently and without signs of political affiliation
with respect to the family and the individuals involved,
this is the most moving display of humanity i’ve witnessed.
80,000 people walking, together, for one movement, for one
reason, without anything between them but camaraderie and
peace.
anger isn’t the best way to cope with loss, it’s just
a selfish way. what way is able to show those responsible
for a heinous act how the community and a nation feels?
killing them alone? hurting them alone? or showing them
the world they know is not behind them, but together
against them and those who condone or would repeat their
actions– that the world is together, away from them,
both in remorse and in presence?
See http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/4936990.stm for the full story.
Photograph by NASA, digitized by Corbis Corporation © 1996
The Greatest View
No matter how many times astronauts have photographed Earth during two decades of space shuttle missions, the image in the rearview mirror has never become routine: that perfect blue marble, whorled with white, suspended against blackest space.
Pasted from < http://magma.nationalgeographic.com/ngm/space/wallpaper06.html>
See http://photojournal.jpl.nasa.gov/index.html for more.
and beneath these thoughts of failure, of
never being able to walk infront of you
without crawling at your sight, i pile
memories so tightly as to suffocate the
eyes, to swell the sinuses. in this pile
rests you and me, though only one will
ever really be.
behind the child’s smile rests the tongue
of a woman. above, her eyes hide in
marble a fire’s flame. that smile pulled me
to the stretch of frown and sadly i fell
back from her.. a needed pacing as she
stands so full above me.. and i
wonder/wait for her to breathe so i may
feel her breeze along these lips.
i love the mundane. the average,
everyday, routine greetings between us.
the “hii”, the “herro”. i love them more
because i know just about everyone
greets everyone the same. i don’t have
to fear you saying the same to
someone else, because i know you do. it’s
the personal, indepth conversations i can’t
stop being afraid of. if i tell her this; if
she sees me as this; if we share this
moment, will she share it with someone
else? will we be the marker for this
footnote in time, or will we be but casual
letters placed neatly in a row, to be
announced out as routinely as a rolecall
with a thousand more to go?
if only we could purchase and discard
interchangeable hearts, i could speak
to you, throw out that old, broken
bone-pumper, replace it with a
brand-shiny-new, crimson ticker ’til
its time runs out; i’ll be standing
while you watch the remnants
of that rusty-bubbled spare part
spill over lips to be painted with the
blackest red– just hold on a second,
i’ll switch them and you won’t
have to worry about such a
catastrophe again..
until the new one bursts; i think
i may run out soon, i’m not too
satisfied with having only lived
to know your presence; i want
to know your radiance; i want
to rip from my chest this
interchangeable heart and place it
upon your doorstep, so when
you’re doing your dailies, you’ll
maybe stop for a second
to sweep the blood off your mat,
leaving streaks to show it was there
until the hose is turned on
to clear the concrete, the brick of
my gift to you– how
so sincere, let me unzip this torso
and replace this weakened soul
with another i know can’t stand
up to you; let me sit here,
i’ll splash away the red markings
with this bucket; let me sit here,
i’ll take my interchangeable heart,
discarded, with me on the way out.
just another monologue
i parted the seas to see you;
broke down on the way,
hoped you’d wait, but
i guess time rolls on,
even for everyone;
tried to map the route from afar,
but nothing goes as planned;
the paper’s just a scribble
with no means of bringing
you closer to me.
“But, it’s not fair. I.. I never had my chance. It’s not fair!”
“You’re right.”
“What can we do? How do I regain my chance?”
“You can’t.”
“Who am I, but a humble servant of the west-blown winds. How may I challenge the aristocracy of this town? By never buying but a penny’s worth of their goods, from me they’ve still made a killing. What smoothened texture the air holds when I reside in clouds face-leveled by their origin; perhaps all is as by day found to be, perfectly fine. What night brings more than what was left to bed when gone dreaming? None. None besides the night of storm, when deals of death lay struck or striking, or tense night of concept’s mass. What madness was I speaking hence?”
“You needn’t worry.”
“Ciao.”