Thursday, June 9, 2011

Untitled







Feeling crosses

carrying aura

encrimsoned bones

collecting quiet

spreading twilight like a veil.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Cycles


The crocuses in my front yard are blossoming.  The weather is ripe for exploration.
But there are no trails here; no well-wooded parks.  Just trimmed grass
and goose droppings; broken asphalt bike paths.  I miss picking wildflowers
and hiding among the trees with friends.  Breathing
the humid air trapped beneath tree canopies.
It is hard to acknowledge those times have passed.
They seemed so significant, but feel unsubstantial.  My sister,
the bright star, the butterfly, reminds me to stay positive. This is an opportunity!
—To new friends! To new paths and new memories! —
that in 12 months or 60 years may only remain as fuzzy, soft-focused daydreams.
But at least they will be my daydreams, not an allusion in a novel
or a visualization from a poem, they will have been real to me even if for only those
moments.

Ace.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Risk







Can they smell my fear? I hunger for their hunger.

The nearness of the neck-breaking bite

clouds my vision; endorphins on high.

Ace

Friday, March 25, 2011

"Follow the Sound"


Fresh from a newly failed stab at independence, hot on the trail of the sound,
I’m moving back to New York.
I’ve grown tame and
the concrete jungle awaits.
I will be wild again, infected by the scents and sights of sooty snow,
burnt tobacco, fossil fuel filled exhalations.
I will stalk along these nearly never empty sidewalks seeking adventures;
new stories to tell in my own words.
Unless, of course, they find me first.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Hoarder's Psalm






What else do you label a box that is at least partially packed with bottle caps and sea glass?  I refuse to call them useless, it's part of nesting.  The aggregate I keep to help me feel settled.  They shine in my eyes with moonlight as I try to sleep.  Imagining a life as fulfilled and long and deep, as a french kiss with eternity.  I am disposable too, and understand discarded things; so I collect them to journey with me.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Whimper

This will break the tension. Heat the glands
beneath my eyes, release the mucus
pressure in my sinuses. Make
my mouth dry and my lips hot.

My chest heaves, and my breath’s involuntary beat
becomes a ragged staccato.
Just out of time with
the bass of my being.
Which sounds so loudly now,
in my throat, just below my earlobes.

Externally, the only expression of the
cloudburst, is a whimper that
leaves my lips before
I can breathe it back;
like laughter I long to smother.

Technologically Sensual

This interface feels like
sliding fingertips across space.
Why waste time with buttons,
when you can make a machine
respond to touch like human skin.