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
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.
If you scowl, they’ll know. They’ll see into that cave smile and know—if you frown, it’s clear to them, that your mind is a burrito and you are the tortilla, wrapped so endlessly it’d take the sharpest knife to separate that mound. If you let a tear squeeze through they’ll see and gasp and wonder what must have happened to you to make … Read More Voices
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.
How to make sense in a world neglecting crayons. I need paper please that white blank paper is vital so much is vital so much is vital so much is missing. If I cannot make sense (and I cannot buy it) then I must steal sense. Take it with my chalk hands, leave finger outlines on the black … Read More Making Sense
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.