God your eyes are blue
little pools of hue
where yourself sees you  

See them and ask why
You feel like to die
die forever tethered
but things don’t stay tied
tethers will sever
dying isn’t new
nor for forever
no matter how blue
or green, whatever
the hue seems to you

Nothing makes more sense 
than the primal affection
of a cat 

I, too, understand the urge
to be close to those I love

To mark and remember 
what belongs to me

When my dear cat rubs
her face against mine,
nothing in the room
makes more sense to me

It feels so good to finally be outside—
especially amongst my community.
A culture that can never be replicated,
only imitated. 
Our ancestors would be so proud.

May our focus on celebration outweigh the discrimination.

THYME

WIELD

SPEAR

BREAK

Frission of insect song

                                                      ~ trrrrrrrrrrrl ~

when unseen bows brush 

                                                      ~ trrrrrrrrrrrl ~

one ceaseless note, before

                                                      ~ trrrrrrrrrrrl ~

resolve to lower register

                                                       * brief breath *

& recapitulate

                                                      ~ trrrrrrrrrrrl ~

all night long

                                  & again.

ancient streaming screen
lens wrapped in brass and wire
vaulted mystery

sometimes
it just takes
two hands 
on either side of the face
nose touching
and a 
I love you
to make sure
everything makes
sense

You smiled so warmly like you knew me. 
Your grin took the familiar shape of an out-of-place
memory, but the gaps never filled, just drained
into the supplement aisle when the crowd surged.
I’m always blacked-out, warped images corroding
my vision, in their wake I’m puzzled by a blankness. 
There’s been too much turbulence, distance, darkness
to find how the light slants back into your eyes
the exact way it did back when. You used to.
Your name is. I know you. From the time you.
No signal. No transmission to sift through static.
When, where, who? An unknown number doesn’t ring,
discarded into my missed call log, 5:34 pm, no message left.
I was so alarmed in the moment noticing the tally of faces
my memory betrays, that I forgot to smile in return. 

I’m bargaining with my chronic pain.

How many years of my life would I

be willing to give up

if it meant the rest of them

would be headache-free?

Am I willing to become

who I might have to be

without my pain?

Someone who is more productive.

Someone with less excuses.

Someone who doesn’t nap.

Someone who isn’t held back anymore.

Someone who does uncomfortable things.

Someone who says no and sets boundaries.

Am I willing to give up

the familiar pain

for a different kind?

Thursdays are like October are like
hot days in Spring and cool in Fall.
Underneath every weekly struggle I
rely on my small day, near the end.
Saturdays too excited, like Fridays,
don’t let me breathe for the plans
always stuffed into every minute.
Yes, Thursdays are my favorite.