Beach

Banging my hollow chest from bed

Why did I decide to become a pop star?

Why did I decide to not be sad?

Sad is my cadence

It hurts people

I can see it as a color that absorbs all others

I can see it as a unit ocean

....

A mouse eats an ant and becomes a kitten

A cat eats a mouse and becomes a dog

Rave

In the morning hour nothing needs to be done.
I'd be sitting with my pen poised,
pipe in hand-
Mother and Father to the Orphan
If she were emancipated
instead of abandoned.

Solitary
and my furniture is second hand.
The mourning doves assert their soliloquy for infant light
Every morning is their first

Patchouli and its siblings drift into our hall
Announcing the pride we take
In staying in place.

A man, Tyrone, lived in this apartment
His parents lived here
And Before that, I don't know.
But I have made myself at home in Tyrone's home.
And someone else's daughter's bed.

Supercessions are what keep me here.

Moving body in crowded jubilation
Floating over pain and loss and
 violence
like a wing
Covering like a wave
we bleed eternally
Dancing against each other, lost and losing caverns of infinity
With no boundary to be found in space.
Only soft boundaries,
different and repeating,
placed in time.

Italy

It was the 90s
We were in a foreign land
I was 8 and you were 5
We ate ice cream every day

We returned
I was 17 and you were 14.

Everything is old here
Do all these other people know each other?

I could hug these stones.
I would throw my body down
on these old stone streets
to feel your pulse again.

Two Years

I am a blank platter.

Free wine, I ate the welcome.

Mad at the bar

Too light, too loud.

Wasted, waiting

A Fresh Start

My mind is very blank.
I want to caress white tiles
To slide my boots

To swallow sterling silver plated trinkets.
There are so many piles.
and gold plated trinkets.

Straining to be upright things.
So many miles of mistakes

Breaking to be organized
It is a sick formation

Remembering The Summer And The Fall That Followed

The art in the woods
The person that I accidentally thought was 37
The roof in the sun.

My stupid black skirt
My broken pin
That I cared about what I looked like
That you're gone.

St. Marks

Last time I was in this church, you were alive
And I sat next to my teacher, who cried
And two women were united
in love
By a priest and a poet,
and the words of a poet gone.

Oh, we watched from the rafters
as the city streamed in,
and a host swept the floor
of flowers
The arranged congregation
preparing to sing,

We gathered our hands

with our hearts

in our chests,
We observed what it means
to belong.