Monday

02252013

she said,
sometimes, i feel as though
i’m inhabiting someone else’s body.

i said,
and who, in the meantime,
is inhabiting yours?

Sunday

02172013

on the pages clean of words,
agitation reigns.

what?
what of you?
what of your absence?
what of this whiteness?

what of your presence?
what of my aliveness?

after the sunrise,
came the storm.

it tangoed,
leaving its toeprints in the sand.

did i pretend to have the last word?

i am a confessional. i am a hand glass.
i am a hall of flawless mirrors.

one hundred thousand pages of confession,
you once wrote.

did i pretend to have the last word?

after the storm,
comes the sunrise.

come to me.
speak to me.

on the pages inked with words,
tranquility reigns.

Friday

02082013


after the sunrise...


let me drift
inside this river
sailing still as a grave
mummified in wordless time
bandaged in lightwaves
waiting for you
to come to me
to draw a window
on this face
to stroke
with tongue
with neck
with thumb
the keyholes of my eyes
to singe
with ardent breath
my static lips alive

02012013

she said,
i want to reveal the truth of who i am.
i want to break the darkness of me.

i said,
speak to blank paper;
no person will understand.

i said,
speak… and hope that the paper is not
too fragile for the gravity of your thoughts.

i said,
speak… and hope that the paper is not
too thin for the heft of your words.

i said,
speak… and hope that the paper does not
tear beneath the burden of thick ink.

speak… and hope,
i said.

but also know...
one word
can fill a page,
and once the words
are present… there…
black ink on white paper,

everything is here,
everything is now.