PAD 25

I would ink my life
just the see an ending I already know.

PAD 11

Things I own:

A faulty heart,
scarred skin stretched over life-tensed bones.
A home,
old and getting older, but with a solid foundation-a warmth.
A terminally weak stomach,
knuckles spring broken, clenched against daylight.
A car,
small, but bigger than it looks, t.a.r.d.i.s. on wheels.
A brain that digests knowledge,
chipped and encrusted nail beds clawing for anything to hold me up.

PAD 3 2015

We are standing in the precipice, watching
dark clouds roil
thunder makes spontaneous connections with the earth
and all we can do is secure ourselves
latch ourselves to life
and survive.

It's off to work we go...

I race to arrive at a place I disdain, a fixture
in perpetual arrivals
and departures.  Cloaked in a scowl
an aura that screams for distance.  I invision myself invisible,
untouchable: Queen; of the Escalators,
of the maze of gates , of a path I could walk blindfolded.

I destroy my actuality
for eight and a half solid hours, supress
the "fuck it" on the tip of tongue and finger.

When that sentence is sufficiently served, I am a little less
proud   myself    alive...a little more: tired  disgusted  angry...  
Mask on a bit more firmly, to fall
into a dreamless sleep, wake to rinse and repeat.

Don't know if this s finished it came to me on my commute...

NOV PAD 2010 - day 9 (two for tuesday)

Not until death. Run as if life is something escapable.
No one gets out alive. Be a torch, burning. Be
the ashes, not the darkness. Be the light...
Be the only thing that shimmers
like a river bed full of washed over rocks. Don't stop.
Not until death.




Breathe. While the lights streak pass
like a carousel ride, a carnival of neon. There won't always be more time.
There will always be days you're burning at both ends. Days you are the wax
not the wick. Deeply, breathe
and step lightly, the stones are loose here.

Mesopotamia

I have daydreamed of you
my palm cupping the underside of your earth. My hand
impossibly perfected your diameter, molded
to your curving horizon.

Three heartbeats in sync...

I find myself cradling you while you cradle
life; call me Atlas enamored with her weight
call this the new geocentric galaxy and I'll be a faithful satellite;
or keep my arm pretending the Euphrates and Tigris, enveloping your fertile valley.

National Poetry Month - Day 7

Every brick has a history;
a century of ghosts live inside each column
I have marked the growth of my footprints next to the floor lines
the deep scratches of years before I arrived here. Months before I leave
or stay; growing use to my fingers trailing across these brick walls,
the creak of these floorboards beneath my hesitant footsteps.

I keep moving because moving has kept me alive.