sugar stained palm,
you holder of stillness,
you trembler of
scrape at the bottom of the coffee mug,
the answers to the questions to your
(a stifled wisdom gleans naked in the sunlight).
all the time unfurling behind you
in the now.
spoon your cocoa with a fork —
you can never catch the brown dust
that slips through the cracks of silver
all your dreams are crumbs scattered desolate
under the kitchen table.
in your destitution, there’s a freedom,
the mirrored liberty
of the empty street barren out your window.
with the dawn of dreams -
i remembered, i remembered, and i toasted, toasted —
to those days where i frolicked with fear
in the fields of future —
in that magic country that lay cradled in the palms of mountains
that held an ancient acquaintance with the secrets of sky.
that held the sacred of sun in the lines of their snow-dusted faces.
i pray for a piece of peace that can be planted and watered — planted and watered — planted and watered —
like the wellsprings from which we came from.
that I can undress my mind of its stories,
like slipping off a dinner party dress before bed.
to feel fully
this midnight moment.
a flickering candle,
a cooling cup of tea.
past 3 am, a fresh autumn rainstorm, the patter of water ruthless on the porch roof.
I am barefoot and coat-wrapped.
my bones are heavy, my eyes burning slightly.
there is a lot of “I” to this moment — silent in its noise and how I’ve always loved the smell and sounds and feel of rain.
I wish I can strip off the “ I” too…
everything’s too much and not enough
everything’s burning, ascending like fire, and overflowing, spilling over into all the corners like water —
everything’s alive and open —
(still, everything’s afraid)
too much much-ness and just enough space still, to hold it
everything’s contained but slipping, slipping through —
unfurling like sweet spring blossom
(curling within to reacquaint with the internal like winter leaves)
everything’s dying, dying, dying and be-coming, coming and leaving, rebirth and unbirth, a cycle that’s a spiral that’s unspooling like a taut spool of thread —
every thing, every being, every human and leaf and goat…
stream of consciousness
is a lazy river,
is an ocean of chaos,
is a tired brook dense with silt and old rocks, grey from all the time spent out in the sun.
stream of consciousness
is a gash of Life in a parched desert,
is the spill of soul when you’re telling the saddest story you know under the stars,
is a sudden downpour in the silver streets of midtown Manhattan on a muggy Mondy afternoon.
stream of consciousness
is the secret lull of the bloodstream under your skin, pumping sure and loyal, all through the hardest days,
This article was birthed on a dejectedly sunny day. The kind of day where the sidewalks shimmer silver, where there’s a graciousness to everyone’s mouths at the supermarket — the kind of day that, if you don’t feel like “I’ve made it,” you don’t appreciate at all.
I’m a sucker for beautiful days, honest. Even if they are heralded by waking up late and gulping down a slightly bitter coffee that burns the edges of my tongue.
Even if I’m running out of hours at a freelance editing job and career options are shrouded in mystery. Even if the occasional…
You meet them once in a while.
The ones with a fierce gaze of confidence and slow cadenced voice. The ones who hold the attention of the entire table, almost lazily. The ones who can start off their story quiet, a smattering of inconsequential details leading up to an almost anti-climactic ending, and still, you feel it in the room.
That mesmerized silence, the subtle anticipation. There’s a magic to it every time. You come to realize — it’s never about the drama or the dark details. It’s about the lull, the confident clasping of your audience’s attention in your…
in my dreams
I was a bird
flying through a storm of ash
over a city laid bare with its longing
(a bear in a bush
roaring with the tide)
the hours are sure to undress you.
it starts out calm-
a hush of whisper over a glassy sea.
but days don’t stop going.
even when the peace
and the able-ness of our ability
there’s a shame to the peace of this cage.
our hunger is still of a softened kind.
(you can never be prepared)
the soft discomfort in our bellies
There’s just not enough hand,
To hold all this sky,
Not enough dusted land,
To hold the weight of your sigh.
There’s just not enough lip,
To form all the words,
So that they can gracefully slip,
Cry the truth like wild birds.
There’s just not enough skin,
To blanket the bones,
Of every sin and loss and win,
stacked by the side like an old structure of stones.
And all this lack, all this too-muchness
Is housed in a soul-crack, for such is
the way of space —
It cannot abide, by all our Insides.
It sees no place