I spend my whole life                                                                                             

     trying to read you

while simultaneously trying to make my face

     a page in a book

     you wrote

so you would come home every day just to dwell on the words on my mouth,

     spend so much time with them

     that one day you might run your fingers

     through the pages in my hair,

     cherish the personification of desire

     that you made

and be pleased.

—

Today you said you can’t read me

and I realized

that if you tried, you wouldn’t even find me in the footnotes

because its easy to get carried away with a red pen

and all the time in the world

So 

I’m writing you this

and though the sleeve wearing my heart is paper-thin

I swore to myself I’d publish…

Today you said you can't read me

but I say

you can.

Please, tell me I'm not your average library novel

free me

word for word

weaken the stiffness of my spine

hold me 

run your fingers down my back

and make me your well-read favorite.

11/2/13

A toy.                                                                                   

it's a toy in your hands
and I feel the cold air rush over my body
as you sweep my heart to the side

You're a child.
and you've outgrown all the games
but people keep giving you toys

Dreamer                                                      

Southwest flight to Portland 

everyone with their backpacks 

olive green, Nalgenes, 

long hair, instruments in hand. 

In this state, 

I will find you here. 

"Play a song for us."

I remember piano keys

emanating from the red walls 

as I lay my head down to sleep, 

sweet, musical themes of my childhood. 

"Play it for us again, would you?"

Tell us a joke

when we're angry

give us a laugh 

when we cry.

Chipper spirit, kin

tell me about your dreams

tell me about the worlds you see in your mind 

the ones you create.

I remember beach hotels 

Years ago

Warm porridge in the morning

Golden syrup friendship

We didn't need any others. 

I remember sandcastles 

Hours and hours on masterpieces

and then the minutes spent scrambling 

when waves force us to work 

faster than we'd ever thought we could...

"Anything is possible," you'd say.

I remember real castles, 

walking walking walking

old stone remnants of the life lived,

Maybe they were a warning. 

We'd climb over the rocks 

find the walking sticks

And hike the hills

we'd never seen in Illinois;

these were our adventure stories.

You were prince of Egypt

and lakes

we'd part 

the red sea with our staffs,

Disney movie euphoria,

and happiness--singing all the while.

"Sing for us, would you?"

You were the leader.

Fellowship of the ring,

in our backyard woods

smacking down the nettles 

with our sticks,

Pioneers in a marshland

soon to be conquered

by the children of its owners. 

Conquer the world, my friend, 

and rule it well.

I remember the time in the subway 

in the city of France that glows

You were the charmer in the movies

joking with the locals.

I remember the top of the mountain we climbed, 

looking into other countries,

where you taught me to see 

without border lines in the way,

blocking my vision. 

Teach me to smile like you have

so many times,

show me how to play like you do…

and please, 

"Sing for us whenever you'd like,"

and dream with me 

like I know we always will.

Inspire us, dreamer,

and whatever you do, 

know that you 

are loved.

things start splitting at the seams now                                                              

things start splitting at the seams now

anything to make you smile

in my mind

you are

the ever-present love that remains like a ghost

I hold this book, looking, questioning, wondering

I believe

functional things,

but slow guitar sounds

remind me

I’m tumbling down

tumbling down

poise

only to hold me together

only to act like I can.

control, ooh, the thing I know best.

do I really know me at all?

what suppression leaves me with

empty, quietness in tones I’ve never heard

not loud enough to wear hand-knitted perfection.

it’s a good thing your will exists...

stubbornness cowers now

thank god, it does.

Whitened pine needles                                                                                

Crisp air steaming in our noses 

Smiling hellos and goodbyes 

Like we never slipped 

Down this steep angled hill. 

Frigid waves, fingers shaking 

Looking up to face the sky 

Only when we remember at times 

How we've forgotten the warmth of the sun 

We absentmindedly ask for forgiveness 

and hope it comes before we reach the end 

   

Far off a sailors waltz calls 

Drunken adventures and worlds to see 

Oceans to master, maps to make, 

Pretty impulse romances to try... 

Yet this beckoning call 

Tells a heavy tale, 

Sadly howling in the nighttime storms... 

   

Still it pulls us away from the bitter reality 

That is home. 

Here 

This northwest wind 

closes proclaiming mouths 

so it hurts to smile 

and hushes precious shouts of joy 

It calls us names like Insanity, Naive 

and we forget how to remain in truth 

Returning from voyages to unknown, 

Sadness feeling like blanket chills 

Rocking shipwrecked wood--

and we say that is freedom? 

No escape changes anything, ever. 

It's living here that sometimes feels like slow monotonous breathing, 

and that will be all 

Until we find our love again, 

Which we won't 

We never do, 

We won't remember. 

   

But 

Lucky truths define themselves 

Before our narrowed eyes 

And 

Warmth finds us. 

We cannot search enough 

Try enough 

Read learn grow speak hear enough 

Skeptics 

We're running numb 

So we can't feel enough to stop 

And the warmth finds us. 

That's how it comes, 

The sunlight peeks through these grey towers and white, 

and dawn is on my face 

Like I never knew 

and I remember 

The newness that means fire 

melting all the harsh 

and igniting all the good, 

Sparks on my tongue 

so powerfully sweet. 

   

We laugh heartily 

warmth returns to our lungs 

And ours is the steam that we see 

The vapor echoes of praising hearts, 

Glory in misfortune turned 

To a story of hide and seek 

    

freedom in fires lit by 

Helping hands 

Magical hands 

Miracle workers in our days 

Before we even knew to 

Think of remembering to look up.   

12-22-11

World of Hearing                                                             

There's something about the piano. 

Simple lyric-less expression into keys

Notes like post-its everywhere I turn my face

surrounding me

reminding me of a simple world,

Simplicity returning to a tired mind

Falling into lullabies...

There's something about the piano. 

Sometimes

Eerie weary tired sounds

Reverberating once and twice and again

Beckon--

Singing invitations

to slip inside a world 

where echoes softly play

and cover wounded hearts

A place where tears are old clothes

Worn and worn into wasted rags

But nobody cares because

     The norm is emotional. 

The regular passerby wave

 in somber contemplation

 lost in secret melodies,

  Dreams running free,

  Effortless imaginations. 

Carried here in my willing heart

I am moved

This resting place holds me

Gentle like a hammock swaying,

 back and forth,

Swaying this body 

 moving me,

 slowing my breath into trance-existence 

and singing the eyelids shut,

   Yes, there's 

    something about the piano. 

Something about the swift motion on ivory

sweeping melodies into my consciousness

Like I never had a choice

Those fingers, graceful and swift,

 somehow so ignorant

Perhaps intentionally oblivious to

 open hearts, real words, and Lyric.

The secret whispers of

Thoughtful silence in a mind 

  that weeps another tragedy,

Are heavy ringing for the world,

Yet shut in a closed room.

After

Dancing softer sounds

slow and come to an end

Honey tasting rhythms,

Haunting thousands of my years,

Bow and retire

  I emerge.

Sweet bliss is stolen 

And reality reminds me,

 Consequence

hits me like a frontal car collision.

Fluidity turns blunt like truth 

to innocent ignorance

and the careless swimming of my thoughts

ceases to yield a pleasant wonder.

In honest sadness I go

 And when I do

I want to take him with me

Where haunting never dares

To weigh down the hopeful heart

And eternity

Sweeps hopeful dreamers off their feet

And into so much more than sleep,

Sweet moments of new life

Reality sweeter, warmer, better than a hot mug

Bringing comfort 

On the wings of notes

 sung in creativity with a purpose

Knowing that no matter the task,

completed here now whenever,

Doing doing doing becomes 

rest in written freedom,

giving reasons to run and

A sweet newness awaits.

it will beget wisdom 

in the refining of learning

 because theorizing is dead 

  locked away with the keys 

   played forever and ever

And 

in the 

arms of peace and

melodic enlightenment

we listen hear and know

it is finished.

Think                                                                             

if art isn't a product of contemplation 

i don't know what is

thoughts in the form of prayer

for comfort?

no

for beauty, for visual appreciation?

the simplest phrases

resonate

and its just a figment, fraction, piece of mind

produced by naive imagination?

no

perhaps it is a pining desire

for transformation

imagined self-improvement plans

conjured up in minds

upon seeing pages in a book

one book,

speaking wisdom into my heart

like a live thing

it is alive

believe there is.

hope for the upcoming.

i know anxiety like none other

mostly inside dedicated moments

where my perfection tries

and my reflection lies.

art is the somewhat-graceful

child of losing oneself into a loud state of 
that which is thinking...

and then

Revelation breaks through

and the easy silence

holding three parcels,

unconditional things,

brushes my thoughts in passing

and i am free.