let the light in.
let the sky open.
let the dawn unfold.
let the morning awaken.
let the clouds fall asunder.
let the mists decline.
let the breeze flow.
let the air delight.
let the day begin.

and never end.




in a crowd
i hear my name
as though i have been recognized
and i smile to myself
with cunning
and guile
and i stall
and face you
with a puzzled expression
while pretending
i am trying to remember
who you are



trapped: a word that claps with finality. phonetically. it has an ominous sound. but i speak the word. trapped. out loud. trapped. by speaking it. trapped. uttering it. trapped. i am setting it in stone. not for glorification. but for paralysis.

i keep the light on. and it burns. bright. undeterred.




an affirmation: i allow myself to think and dream and believe and live... and love... in unlimited ways.



when i love you. when i say i love you. is it because i love you? or is it because i love myself more? when i worry about you? is it because i worry about you? or is it because i worry about myself more?

i've always wanted to believe that love is unconditional. but it isn't. if you stop loving me. if. you know. i will start to feel sorry for myself. i will indulge in self-pity. and that will make me hate you. because i love me more. i will tell myself that you are not good for me. and that will make me hate you. because i love me more.

when i was a child: i used to worry about my mother. i used to worry about my father, too. but i worried about my mother more. the mother-child relationship is that symbiotic. so. i worried about something happening to my mother. i used to think: if something happened to my mama, what would happen to me?

it is a terrible truth that i love me more. it is terrible. but i must admit it to myself.

it is a terrible truth that love is not unconditional. but i must admit it to myself.

love is not unconditional.



i've a bruise on my arm. a small bruise... but not inconspicuous. a love bruise... made from the bonding of body to body. a blue bruise... like the color of the flame that lit our love.

today: i rested my arm against a cushion. my bruise clamored... reminding me it was there... and of how it had come to be. i need but rest my arm against something: a table... a sofa... myself. and the reminder is there. bolder than the moment that created it.

my kneecaps are shot. too many years of sprinting. the doctor once told me not to squat down if i can help it. i can help it. but i don't want to. i squat down on my shot knees so i can see this bruise better in a certain angle of light.

i squat down. and nothing will bring me up.

i am down: with bruise. with pain. with memory. with you.



a lady: she was talking to me. we were chatting about jewelry. when suddenly. our conversation went from jingles to shambles. she told me about how she stopped wearing jewelry. and why. she talked about grief. lost her son. then lost her husband. and didn't allow the grief inside. nine months later. it fell on her. is there another verb? i say it fell, as if to remove any guilt from her shoulders. she used the words i was immersed in it. a violent image. a violent thought. to be immersed in grief. because you did not allow it in. a contradiction, almost. but would you open the door? would you plunge? into a black vacuum? voluntarily?

you would have to be obtuse.



beauty: it is not a sudden happening. it is a quiet shuddering. and it unfolds. like a sky rising out of the sea.



last night. i told myself before i went to bed that i would wake up in the dead of night. and listen. my mind must have that much power. my body responded. i awakened. at 2:41 a.m. i opened my eyes. and lay in the dark. and looked at the ceiling. but didn't see until my eyes adjusted. i saw patterns. and my mind drifted. but i was not awake to dream. i was awake to listen. so i pulled my eyes back from their reverie. closed them tight. and listened. and i heard my voice. as if from far away. i heard it calling me. telling me to come look what i found. and i was afraid. when i meet my double in the dark of night, i am afraid to speak with her. she tells me things i don't wish to hear. she tells me. and i have no choice but to listen. it is just me. and her. and me. and no one to separate. or mediate. or soften the blows.



i am haunted. by slivers of music. they follow me. surround me. inhale me. and then exhale me. i am inside the walls of that music that has no walls. no bounds. no edges. no definition. there is only flow. liquid. flame. i can't get out. but i can see outside. this is not a prison. but a spiritual engagement. a compulsion of the soul. a bending of the senses to nonexistent angles. the pulling back from passion. only to plunge into it once more. with more violence. and brilliance. this is exile. and its inversion.



this is a day i will never forget.



thoughts. padded and stuttery. not allowed their full expression. when i am busy with what matters more than ME, i can't focus on what really matters... ME.



i remember. certain days. in the past. tomorrow seemed a long distance away. and filled to the brim with today. and yesterday.

unsettling... the thought that the future will hold some of the present. and the past. unsettling... these memories. and yet, they exist. and i am helpless to remove them from my reality.

this is how the past exists in the future.



waiting room. i am waiting my turn. others are waiting their turns, as well. each person has come armed with a weapon. the lady across from me has a book. the man to my right has a cell phone. the lady to my left has a cell phone. and... just in case someone forgot their prop, there are four computers against the back wall, three of which are already occupied. we can't be without our weapons and security blankets and defenses. they save us from having to speak with one another. they save us from having to make eye contact. they allow us our own little bubble... invisible, yes... but there. i have my face in my book/phone/computer. you can't talk to me. i am occupied.

i am the only one who has come without a prop. i have no book. i have my phone. but i have never been one to use it for any other purpose than making or receiving a call. i also have a small notebook that i always carry with me... in case i should get a thought i don't wish to forget. shall i pull out my notebook? but... how awkward. it's not as if my muse has just attacked with a slew of inspiration. in fact, i am quite numbed by my surroundings. all i can do is stare wide-eyed at this scene and shake my head (but only to myself, because no one would notice me anyway). though i feel like the proverbial sore thumb because i have no prop, no one acknowledges my presence, or anyone else's for that matter.

i think to myself: if i were to get up and dance like a madwoman, i would get maybe one quick glance from one person or the other before their eyes drifted back to their props.

i ask myself: am i living in the wrong time? or am i in the wrong place?

i hear my name. i have been summoned. i have been saved. this time from my own questions.



i have two windows in my kitchen. i like my windows. when i come home from work, i:

drop my keys on the bed
take off my shoes
take off my clothes
turn on some calming music
walk to my kitchen window that looks out into my back porch. from this window, i can see the world around me. i can see my trees. i can see my flowers. i can see my neighbor's yard.

one day. i looked into my neighbor's yard. and saw her. i started to create a life for her inside my head. we spend our days conjuring scenarios for ourselves and others, and then the master plan falls into place and declares itself. usually, it is not a master plan that we have imagined... or created, but a master plan that dances to its own rhythm. we may choose to dance along. or. we may choose to rebel. or. we may choose to do nothing. but the master plan stops for no one.

today. i looked into my neighbor's yard. again. i saw her. again. when thoughts of a master plan for her came into my head, i shooed them away.

i am tired. and i have exhausted the air around me.



a long day ahead. and what day isn't long? time doesn't travel in straight lines. nothing is straight. even light bends. but when time bends, it hides within cracks that i can't go inside. i have to wait for it to remember me... and find me. unfortunate. i am always aware of time's existence... its passage. it is always there to remind me of itself. the ticking of a clock. the movement of the sun. the light chill that touches the air when the day is coming to a close. the droop of my eyes at bedtime. if i were as oblivious to time as it is to me... but. i abort this thought. the long day is waiting for me to begin it. as if it won't begin without me.



today. one of my students said to me. miss, did you ever lie to your mother? she was standing by the door, waiting for the bell to ring. and i was standing with her. i was baffled by her question. stunned into speechlessness. what should i tell her, i thought. should i lie and tell her i had never lied to my mother? or should i tell the truth and... what kind of role model would that make me? i was saved by the sound of the bell. and by her flitty nature. she's a teen. carefree. questions are asked without a real concern for an answer. i remember those days.


this is not a journal. or a beautiful writing space. or a space for beautiful writing, for that matter. this is me. these are my words. naked. these are my thoughts. unraveled. nothing else. no beautiful art images to dazzle the eye. no elegant twists of metaphor to bend the mind. no dreams. no fiction. only experience. raw. honest. and words. uninhibited. liberated.