a sigh

what do i say to the feelings that spill?
they run down too fast
and evaporate as I
try to whisper them

what do you say to those fleeing?
they run from you
fooling you with their side shuffles
little crabs, snapping the claws
to the beat of your broken heart

what can we say to those who refuse to love us?
we wallow in our own mess
call it a swamp
and fester with the silence
until we blend in with everything

what can we say about a person?
broken down into cubbyholes
the meaning just withering between the lips
evaporating with the breath
hoping to be more than a whisper


i too have someone who speaks to me in the dark
the shadows of shadows, burnt umbra of a heart
and a sullen smile crooked in its wake.
the sadness of the soul dissipates in the contrast of the days. singling out the tumors, overgrown thoughts clumped and blocking new ones. the growth of a tomorrow stained by the sorrows of today.
i too have someone who speaks to me in the dark, a shadow of a shadow, a name within a name, the tectonic shifts of broken pieces of a heart determined to stay within the lines of a god, within the maze of the celestial plane.

a march morning

on a march morning
rain falls and falls
the love songs coo in your ears
and the sheet of rain
gently kisses your skin
on a march morning
a cold, cold day
wrapped up in memories
in melancholy
the drops of cool water
cleanses them away slowly
scene by scene
face by face
running down your fingertips
and fading into the cement
on a march morning
the cool rain
rid you of all that you couldn’t
hold on to anymore


the search for love
the search for warmth
can lead you to strange beds
with strange fellows
holding strange emotions
straddled between cages
you have no key to open

the search for compassion
the search for empathy
can lead to a strange plea
that holds your pieces
that fall when you’re not looking
nestling between cracks
you have no eyes for

your humanity fractured
hinging on what you can collect
on what you can hold on to
and of what others can make of it
can lead to the estrangement
to your own soul

a performance for ghosts

undressed, water rushes, the soapy lather, the lather into the curves, the water, the river into the crevices, and the prick of the bubbles popping, the eyes they follow, your eyes they close, enjoying those eyes that follow everything that is yours.
too well, so scented in the honeysuckle creams, so nice, very nice, the skin glistens so clean. clean sheets, clean clothes, the day opens its curtains, those eyes that follow close themselves away from you. your eyes don’t sorrow and see those other eyes waving a goodbye, a good show a very good show, you are never shy.
open books, crumpled paper, pens and pencils too. lavender creeps in the corner, the sage rises in smoke. everything you are, records you keep but those eyes only want your show, this and that, those winding rhythms you learned just for show. deeply in your heart you wait and wait. for a pair of eyes that see you in every other way.
your woman isn’t a soirée, she’s a fleshed out half god, waiting, always waiting, for a love that never arrives.