Hide & Seek ...

It took me 30 years, not 10,              to really start finding myself again:

        To drink my way                                            toward sobriety,

         To scream/snore my weekends                            toward balance,

          To impulse-buy my closet                                 toward a yard sale,

           To sugar/grease my mouth                                       toward a salad,

            To brag my way                                                    down to humility,

             To hate-rage forth                                                        my kindness,

             To lie-twist my seams                            into “I’m not your dream,”

            To slobber/tooth-clack                                       toward a fine kiss,

           To boob-job my chest                                     toward acceptance,

          To punch-kick the drywall                                  toward tender,

         To repeat-shout my views         into “I love how you think!”

        And gun-mount my towers                         to surrender.

                           It took me                                 permanent injuries

                  To myself, to friends,                                  to strangers…

            To forgive my own hands, and your hands, for life's—sting;

         To respect (more than fear)                         this world's dangers.

        To end smooth                                     

                                                                                             as skull bones

         And soft                                  

                                                                    as old leather,

           Complete             

                                       as a puzzle piece:

                  myself  

                             altogether.

After-glow ...

I'm so relaxed.

      There's nothing I need.

                   My senses awake;

                         My hunger asleep.

                           Shanti, shanti, shanti—

                                       Trees, birds, sky.

A shoot could grow from between my toes

             And drink from beneath my eyes.

                            To think,     I used to

                                          Want to cum—

     To hammer at flesh,                lose my

           Breath,                              fall numb.

When now                                  I love simply

Building                 this churning ball,

Seeing how high         I can swell my

Heart,                           before I fall:

     I claw                        my skin;

I caress                         and trace

                          My tingling   

              stomach,

 My exhaling 

             face;

I gasp through 

                   my fingers,

Wipe smooth my sweat,

           Then throat-moan 

        a rumble through my

      Ballooned belly/chest—

         To collapse, all spent;

          To awake, all peace;

                  To feel all here.

                 Where desire 

       has ceased.

Only to Live Again (song) ...

When I look at the sky, 

I think “Where have you been?

Have I met you before?”

 We die and we live again.

Somethings come from nothings 

(every shedded flesh in the world).

This space was a flower; 

now brown stems and petals curled—

           They'll bleed to tea inside the raindrops, maybe

           Spill out their minerals through grass and daisies,

           Or ride the dusty tracks up deer backs, pine sap—you-and-me:

           We'll wear their ash and breath their breath. Death made me.

On cold nights, I've knocked; 

The godly won't let us in:

Their fads are cliché—

and all things outside are “sin.”

So I laid blindly down—

so alive was the dark

With welcoming mouths, 

wide eyes, whispering feet. My heart...

           I shook my legs before the sweet ants flayed me,

           Hunted for starlight, felt the ground churn paisley,

           And realized these closed-in cabin fires had suckled my fear—

           The myth of 'ends.' Night cleans our bones; life starts here.

When I look at the stars. 

I think “Nothing is gone.”

What seemed like a phase-through-me, 

is an endless dawn:

Ancient, traded atoms 

building up inside a living thing.

I'm borrowed inside, 

and destined as offering.

My Pronoun ...

'He' is not good enough.

I've noticed in moments over the years.

          First when I saw my shell

                (“I don't even know how to be with her.”

                 “I'm kind of an avoidant friend.”

                 “I'm afraid to let anyone in.”)

          And friends taught me who I was

                (“I don't think you've ever been in love! Sorry.”

                 “Don't 'should' other people. Understand them.”

                 “You're really bad at taking compliments.”

                 “You're too kind. It's hurting you.”)

          Then I let the world break me open

                (“How do you live like this without drugs?”

                 “I love you, and every love is a stepping stone.”

                 “You seek emotionally unavailable women.”

                 “Who lets you go? You are magical.”)

          And then I felt myself in us

                (“How did you put up with me?”

                 “Because I'm grateful you exist.”)

Full of everyone.

“I” was never good enough; never

why I wanted to exist.

          “We” was why,

          “for us” a good reason,

          “ours” something worth keeping.

“How is he doing today?”

  I'd rather not be.

“How are we doing today?”

  We're smiling now—

How are you-with-me?

Fractal Promise (song) ...

{ Song => Here }

You don't have to say; I already know.

          You have stars for eyes. 

          Your spirit comes and goes.

I already said goodbye to the side of your face on a tightrope toward the sun;

          I barely had time to catch your breathless name, 

          packing up once it was gone.

So now I'm sorry for—

fogging up your glasses, and that

We had to stick your phone in a—

bag of desiccant packages; that

We got caught by the sprinklers, 

          lying in a grass field, 

                    staring at the moon.

          Don't have to say it ... 

          don't have to say it ...

But, if not for our clothes, I wouldn't trust my skin.

          Your breath dissolves my neck: 

          don't know where I begin—

Or what is time? We spent a year in ten days, a lifelong in a night.

          I felt your infant joy, 

          and dreamed our heads turned white.

So here's my ocean-frozen chest, 

and my shower warm.

Here are your watercolored journals 

and your pin-pricked arms.

We fell sideways 

          with our eyes fish-hooked, 

                    our brows bent with the truth.

          Don't have to say it ... 

          don't have to say it ... 

          but I love you too.

Your smile looked a little dim when you first saw my face tonight,

          Lit up with a giant chess set, 

          remembering ghosts in the neon lights.

"I drank so much of you it hurts," you said after a soft goodbye. So

          Take all the time-in-space you need; 

          I'd rather lose you than pull you from the sky.

                    (G) - (C) - (G) - - (D) - (C) - (Em) - -

                    (Am) - (G) - (C) - - (Am) - (C) - (Em) - -

We dressed up for this show. 

But tonight is not our life.

Don't have to see my face again, 

don't have to be my wife.

Just hold my hand 

          and be as awed as I am, 

                    while these strings fill up the room.

          Don't have to say it ... 

          don't have to say it ... 

          but I love you too.

You don't have to say. I already know.

          You have stars for eyes. 

          Your spirit comes and goes.

What's shade tonight, 

          in two weeks bright, 

                    and always beautiful? The moon …

          Don't have to say it ... 

          but I love you too.

She Reads Her Old Journals ...

I want to reach into the purple ink

of your old journals,

         up through the gooey pen tip

      biting the page, and say:

“You are amazing.

And surely don't know it—

          But I can taste

         Those words you were feeling,

     I am breathing the heat off your tongue.

          Say it again. How dad

         Told you to 'Wear boy's clothes'

     Because you were becoming, and he only saw young.

          Say it again. How the

         Beach is filled with boobs

     And the night with music, soft lips, sweet unknowns.

          Say it again. How being

         Tears-on-knees by your burnt hopes

    Became your warrior-paint, your love of self, your compass home.”

I could bla-bla-blah on a page

   My second-hand awe, aching

At the imprint of a thousand heartbeats, stuffed between these pages.

But I'd rather crumple-and-toss all that,

Just whisper out into your eyes:

“You could have made 

                    bombs from your pain—

                                      but you made this.”