The sun plays on the fronds of the ferns, the ones which frame the courtyard in dappled glitters of sweet breeze through palm. Light dribbles lucidly across the cobblestones, a symphony of pigeon toes scuttling across stones with nails like safety pins. The barista has her fingers twisting through her hair and sex on the mind.
Once here, I let out a long breath ; the sound thuds dully against the window pane which streams in sunlight from a morning mister. The sound from my breath outweighs the sounds of diggers and cranes from the site on the other side of Seaside Avenue.
I keep my eyes open when I look at you. Your lips read: espresso for here, please & my fingertips tap against the plastic screen & I slide it to you with my eyes open. You criss-cross your skin, diagramming the name you’ve owned for years, & before you leave for the corner table, you reach deep into your pockets. I’ve met you before– … Read More Visions
I wrote myself some love poems today, outlined in sun near the ocean’s smile. The waves beat down upon charcoal rocks and up frothed a great many minerals. I absorbed them all, flesh-first, like the fern drinks in the rain. I loved myself with pen and with sun; when thirsty, I drank; when hungry, I ate; when sleepy, I slept—and felt no reason … Read More Self Serving
Be patient, and write long. As long as the strokes of your eye lashes pulse the fingers to keys, then both of us remain alive. Be patient. Your dreams have no anchors; let them float light. Let the throat grow easy and jaw relax. Open and close the hinges of your mouth and feel the knobs of your shoulders merge with the elbows. … Read More Write Long
Step two : Get small, she said—small as possible you ain’t gonna reach the earth if you insist on being so big. Curl your toes; just like that til you sink neatly in on your center– double, triple, crisp and clean-cut like a paper brochure tuck yourself under and let the head droop.
She was a warm-weather writer the sunlight singing into her salted shoulders she tipped her head back and felt the flesh rise, tiny hairs stretching for a soft sky. The pen she held loosely between fingertips knowing it wasn’t for show she was here.
Praise be the autonomous who sit, crumped upright in a land of red Mountains. The ones who eat, food dripping from loose corners, at a table of stone, who lay, facedown on beds of Earth shards, listening hard for the rare sound
You wore their hearts on your wrists and ankles belly to belly hugging, chalky and holistic. They extended themselves to you palms sunwards, asking you to see them, to see them, to see them. Your own heart, you tucked carefully out of peripherals, finding happiness in the folds of not having to share everything.
Three cheers of a dusted dawn; electric angels sweep the streets, and light clouds skip stones against the still lavender waters of the canal. Earth sings her morning tune, low and orange against the cool palm breeze. Creation calms and tells me I must start today from the inside. No half expressions.