I come in peace, but not meekly. My hands are open and unarmed; I reach them but do not cover them in the colors of the soil that breathes through the pores of culture and cries poetry into the dailyness of what is and must. I come in peace, but not meekly; I neutralize and …
All I know of life is that it changes. These words, I have written but they can’t be written enough, battered into the daily slow pondering — — too minute to notice — — blink-and-you’ll-miss-it time passing life passing — in a second over, rebuilt in a lifetime that could last anywhere between a breath …
There are strange flowers growing in the garden of my mind. Insidious weeds, they are, but delicate: fresh, luminous things that light the night, throwing shadows like full moon light. I’ve seen them before, these flowers, and too many years of plucking them and giving them to the wrong person has left me suspicious, unsure …
When sleep comes it comes in a wave nothing but time having passed and the whole world gone dark. How afraid she must have been, little Lucy, the first time. (When grace comes it comes like sleep, in a wave, darkening the eyes)
Imagine you could make the world in your hands and all it took was a movement; but so precise that one hairsbreadth wrong and the laws of physics work backwards; one shiver in execution and the chemicals only explode in raindrops. I tell you what the finger wave god made was something and no wonder …
You do not know the words in my heart but I do, and I am not impressed. I never was very careful, I guess, not even after — — him — You know, that one, there couldn’t be any — (I suppose there were many stars that lit my soul, though perhaps none as cleanly or …
Let this be known — or not, but known in the knowing, that goes beyond breathing. Let this be taken — or not, but taken beyond the steps of that which has never been known, and must not be. We write the end of our own universes and then scream over our losses, sell out the very …
Quietly I have become. Softly, I have vanished and inside I am turning to dust. Golden in the sunshine, and perhaps one day someone will bury their hands, and in drawing them out, find that what once was dust is now the stuff of stars, clinging to their fingertips, and take it to the sky …
