Hold hands with me. My feet won’t point in the direction I will them to, they’re on a loop and my mind is getting dizzy. Hold hands with me. I’ve been watching your stride. Your clean-limbed foot swing mesmerizes me. How can you keep so steady? Please hold hands with me.
The forest is quiet, refreshing in silence, solitude lingers amongst shaded grass. A young rabbit sniffs at the bubbling creek and takes her chance on the muddy shore. In the echoing sunlight the rabbit sips and is remarkably, brilliantly, a rabbit.
Fifteen years from now, a young stag will look over his tawny shoulder to his mother, standing pristine in the shadowy meadow, and wonder to his primitive brain why it is he feels as he does. The mottled sunlight shall cast her still and lithe and his own body will look mighty and strong.
The wind lifts and gusts, a squeaky whine of bicycle tire on hot asphalt, she rides the air with bits of dust and street debris and the cyclist sweats the streets to puddles. Her lithe body is frosted and at float his lean frame bends like the letter P she buds so nearly at the ends his rusted fingers grip roughened handlebars.
Only the birds carry the wind. With shrieks and shrills, they deposit their carriage amongst the palm trees, who— messengers themselves—gorge and sweep the leftovers into cracks of white-plastered windows. Dust, remnants of historic footstep fabrics, plays as if she has a choice; and with breathless youth flaps tiny wings and succumbs to the breeze. Dust is a messenger, too, brought long ago … Read More Look Up
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 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
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.
At the top of the outcrop I sat with my knee-bones tight to my chest— the river undulated below, swirling in shades of blues and yellows refracted light on stones of marble the guttural current cut the cliff to slices–jagged & twisted and
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