Spirit.

The creativity of our bodies will endure
As we tear ourselves limb from limb each night.
I pause here; my thoughts bend to the age of sleep,
The collective consciousness dipping in and out
Of this reality into a place where no air exists,
So far removed that our breath is the only thing
Keeping our minds attached to this world.
I trace my fingertips over the silk water that shines
Like frosted glass; the thin veil between my worry
And the private universe where I can hardly stand
To go. The sky burns and ash falls onto my head,
But the rain mixes with pure light causing beautiful
Sharp and blinding drops to scratch and etch my
Skin. Meanwhile, the cool night which envelops 
My living body slowly pulls me back and into quiet
Breathing darkness. Once again I am left to question
The thousand lives we lead in that timeless mirror.
And where does that energy go when we wake?
I imagine it flying to another creature’s mirror
To torment or to kiss while trapped in their glass.
I imagine it whispering to the subconscious in
Whatever tone and mood it might desire on any
Given earthy day. I imagine it as the immature spirit
Of tangible space, taunting us in the only way
It knows how to reach us. Our waking selves too
Attached to the physical world to hear and 
Feel beyond the simplest terms. That energy
Endures, pushing us forward, urging us to find
The creativity in our skin and bones and blood
While we still possess them. Embracing a form
The universe itself will never have. To taste, 
To smell, to touch, to speak, to hear. To dream.
What creative bodies we possess. What a pleasure
And a curse which is ours to love and hate alone.
What a pleasure it is to breathe before that spirit
Burns us from our bodies and swiftly pulls us home.

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Orphée

A practical morning — 
Foxgloves and foxes,
Soviet grey. Lavender
Painted buildings a la
Bauhaus — They house
A single Human child.

How could you fail a 
Turing test? You did 
Laugh so bright and
Smile so wide, yet a
Human touch evades
Your nightly dreams.

Climb down the sky
The earth is sweet –
Inside the crystal —
Noir and devilish —
The liquid stains my
Lips and makes me
Think of the winter 
Storms that once
Burned like summer.

Claw marks trace
The curves in my
Neck and collar —
A cool drop of gold
Hovers on my chest
Before rolling down,
Burning a path and
Lighting the way.

I bit your hand as a
Plot device. I’ll burn
The book – we’ll write
A new story, won’t
Never glance Back —
The rules have always
Been clear for these
Playboys Of The
Western World.

July 17th, 2016.

(At the Secession Museum,
in front of Beethoven Frieze.
Vienna, Austria.)

What rapture, what joy.
A joy I’ll never feel again.
As joy itself throws me
From jagged to hounds.
I watch that face as if all
Was peaceful as I slowly
Sink into the caverned
And deep. What joy. Ah.
You look so sad to see
The fall, though you are
The one who pushed.
Joy, feel no sorrow, I am
Time again – and hold a
Gold heart. I feel a cold
Wind fold over me soft
And gentle, is this how
It feels to die? If so, we
Are all so wrong. Joy is
In death and life floods
The center of the earth.
Decay, merely a selfish
Exaltation. I’ll embrace
To how wonderful and
Sullen the sun feels at
The end of the day. At
The turn of the hours
When a bright and the
Lonely star rests for a
Simple second, owing
All its lifetime to other
Less wonderful walks
Of life. Sun and joy, a
Couple joined in deep
Rapture and sadness.
How ordinary they do
Long to be, as all eyes
Turn to them in each
Daylight – expecting
A deliverance on their
Promises. But these
Two are only young
Children who break
Simple promises each
Day. Untrustworthy as
Old lovers who grow
Tired. As children who
Always search for new
Places to run. As the
Promise of forever.

Easy.

With lots and lots of heavy heart
We’ll learn to live,
We’ll learn to love
Another day.
And in the wind I hear your whispers,
I hear your heart and hold
Your hand.
I hope you understand that all we
Have is our lungs,
Everything else is just good luck.
Rest your head,
Gentle and tender child.
Be free to feel your pain and laugh
With sincerity at
The loneliness.
It wanes it wanes.
It will wane like silver,
And the tarnish will
Be wiped away.

(Dedicated to my beautiful friend with a beautiful soul.)

July 13, 2016.

Where is beauty tbh. 
Where isn’t beauty tbqh. 
Who has the beautiful. 
Who’s keeping it secret. 
What does beauty say to us. 
What does it whisper at night. 
When does it shut the door. 
When does it turn out the light?

Beauty is a terror. 
Beauty lets us burn. 
Beauty takes our sight. 
Beauty takes our words. 
Beauty loathes emotion. 
Beauty breaks our tongues. 
Beauty leaves us wounded. 
Beauty comes undone. 

July 8th, 2016.

July is the month of storm – the sky exhales.
It’s the month where restless meets still heat.
It’s the month where shadows trace down the back.
Like a warm hand right before it lights on fire.
Now the heat radiates from me. My heat is still.
My heat rests on my skin and causes me to shiver.
My heat I can feel in my palms. Eyes. Hair. Teeth.
My heat pushes out and I feel as if a blue sun.
The color of the hottest flame and largest star.
The burnt rain that rolls down my back evaporates.
The warm thorns cause a flood that cuts new paths.
The water is sharp. The wind, too solid, shatters.
Here is my rejection of their cool red touches.
I’ll eat and sleep and walk and breathe warmer.
Earth. I’ll set the table with ashes and stone.
Let the steam rise around you, cleanse your lungs,
Dew your face and skin, relieve your muscles and
Melt the ice and frost we covet far too much.
Let the warmth slow your heart, calm your mind,
Reach your hands after a long day. Wait. Wait.
Let the warm night bring an electric stillness.
Listen as the warmth creeps through the streets
And down the trees and into the city noise out
From those windows. Tonight is the warmest yet.
Sleep may not come. Does not come when there is
So much heat to have. The marks of warmth are
All over my skin and back. In my mouth. My ears.
Enjoy.

Where.

Where “free” sits in your gut like rocks.
Where we believe the worst before the best.
Where we run from those who “help.”
Where a smile can turn into a nightmare.
Where we cling to those like us.
Where those who aren’t try to put us in our place.
Where everyone is “Too loud. Too angry.”
Where we’re “Too aggressive. Too much.”
Where we’re too this or too that but never enough.
Where bodies turn into Facebook banners.
Where “I stand with [blank]” is compulsory.
Where you don’t have to mean it though.
Where you don’t have to understand it though.
Where you support fighters but refuse to fight.
Where you clap others on the back for their sacrifices.
Where you choose to be a bystander.
Where it’s either follow your heart or your work.
Where it’s painful to truly do both.
Where it’s supposed to be a dream but
Where there’s barely any sleep.
Where we take what we can to not be where we are.
Where shadows mean more
Where the children are right
Where we should be scared IN the dark
Where we should also be scared in the light
Where the good guys — the laws are Hate
Where we, us, the “bad guys” are family.

Where I’ll kiss your head when I can
Because it might be the last time
I kiss you or give you a shoulder to cry on
And we constantly validate each other
And check in on each other because
It is not just about being a little sad
It’s about making sure we aren’t
Dragged under the waves. Because
Just in case you aren’t there tomorrow
– And God when I wake up please be there —
I search for your face just to make sure
You’re still here. I love you too much
Not fight for you and I’ll kiss you and
Kiss you and even if I hate you
I’ll still kiss you just in case it will
Keep you here until tomorrow.