Clue

O steeple – my heart,
my body – the fog,
a door in the road,
a future of loose change,
a bag of metaphors – of truth
to know if it is you.

manifest

there are angels falling from the sky
our mother is pregnant with birth
cleaning us, painting us with white pure

The Room Upstairs

The Room Upstairs is quietly olden
welcoming stars from fallen shorelines
of faint golden seers, of painted locks
where children skip across creaking floors
squealing horses and ponies need saviors
(we all need saviors like fragments of stained glass need light)
we make mosaics out of broken things
and sometimes we smash things
for the sake of brokenness alone.
We paint edges, we sand sparkling dust,
we take shells from the shorelines
and hang them like necklaces around our halo joy.
We sit them in window sills while wild cats go roam
across the city, while guitars hum like waves.
We make amends with them;
with the ones who think music is war.
We construct melodies that tear down walls
and build booths to master capture sound
and all around us are thick walls
stuffed with old poems, old whispers
of the guillotine waiting in the basement
and of this sacred ground gleams honor
for creators alike who love, who watch
blessings flitter fall from the sky.
We take photographs at every miracle moment
when souls by souls are fed with abundance.
It all tastes good in the epicenter of art
where portals swell, where the flow
pours a circle of realms into song, where we
hear voices of angels guiding us to sing along.
In the room upstairs chains are recycled,
they are welded into wings.

mending

i rake mayan blue rain trickling down glass
fingers last facing east when you were blind to me
arms wound long around my ribs heaving weight

the surface gate was closed ten cents i let you in
the gate swung off its hinges the fade of your jeans
same old shoes with holes worn into toes of them 

your chest heaves in drowning joy when i envision you now
flecks of white glow in the morning light on your past 5 o’clock shadow
there was this grey chipped porch and wickerwhite rocking chairs

we steam like coffee in the old farm house of January
and creaks of the old floor hum in tune to the rhythm of
our hearts could have had this… our dreams more than blankets

suffocation

what is with all the secrets

and promises you won’t tell after you tell me
or the looks of behave yourself or swear not to breathe

more loudly than you breathed previous to and after then
I don’t keep secrets or clothes I don’t wear or pictures of you

or boxes to keep things in, to suffocate them.

dilatate

extravagate me

pull me through resounding tapes

contracting particles of dimension

hold on tightly here we come

we are snowflakes melting
white runs of disappear

it’s quite here

in my mind

brain lust

I want to take your mind home with me and sit it on my shelf

so that when I’m alone you can teach me more

about the things I’ve always known.