being passenger

what it is to put the forehead to the window

and let the world pass by

what it is to be a passenger in this life

and aren't we always passengers?



i never never

there are a great many things i never do

i never walk downstairs barefoot on the cold floor
i never go without a bra
i never linger in the bathtub with no purpose

there is a much longer list of i nevers that intimately defines me

but what walls do we create upon ourselves inside of our i nevers?

what keen living lives just a shadow beyond those walls?

(the view from my bathtub)

now i have walked barefoot on cold floors

now i have gone without a bra

now i have lingered in a bathtub with no purpose

by deconstructing

i shall climb beyond my walls

and crawl through the shadows

to know myself

any room

we can go into any room,
every room,
and what does it matter
unless we stay long enough
to touch a wall,
to be touched by a wall,
to notice
the faint glow of yellow? 

long enough

is never measured by time.

but for this madness

but for this madness

i do not understand

and so i drive my body to obelisk, a sacrifice in being, a whore, a knife

i walk silver strident

   something in the rock shines like ice when the sun rises

a crucible

and all about the sky a silver belt

and i count my loves like 

   something in the sky around the stars that shine is vague like rock

and i remain so alone

and i do not understand

blessings all around

with tomorrow coming fast

these bodies

these bodies are our doorways

i kiss these bodies



going places

face

what do we hide (and from whom) and what do we choose to reveal

and just who do we think we're protecting?



body

where two seasons come together

no coming together is seamless



room

each and every room of ourselves

and of the world around us

even if empty

holds so damned much

just consider the walls, the floors, the ceiling

shift

always it shocks me

what the slightest shift in perspective might render

water cooler etiquette

how the happy poplar congregate

and over there
the solitary birch
and the pine with the itchy feet



untitled

only we can find it for ourselves