Monday, November 28, 2011


I do not own
nor do I
any explanations

take it
leave it

I am my own

I have,
showing possession
I will not always,
but for now
I have:

a body
a mind
what I like to call
I am not just my body-
it was given to me.
I do not control how
it looks
or is perceived.
Like a plant,
I try to take care of it
and help it grow

I am not only mind-
although it sometimes feels
it has me when
I am alone with it.
In practice,
I have control over it.
I try to feed it
and fantastic sustenance.

I am more than my feelings-
I have no control over their outbursts
flaring up
and I have to fight them,
tell them that they have no
over me.

I own myself.

Not you
not your body
not your actions
not your decisions.

But for all
that I do not, could not
ever wish 
to own
I would like to love 
just the same
as I do my own.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

You Caught Me Dreaming

The panic button pushed 3:45 am
as myself was laughing at the quarter- life crisis
that revolved above the bed

In that moment
we were writing about how comical
it is in retrospect
that we even worried about now.

The jarring reminder of heart palpitations
shallow breath
and other symptoms of
in the vessel of bone and flesh
finally found us
hidden in those crevices
that science has yet to discover
between the
brain and soul

which reset us back to this morning.

4:07 am
between sheets and sweat
Myself is laughing at this all-too familiar scene
where Body Remembers stress
which tries to take us hostage.

It breaks in through the door
and chases us
with the reoccurring red car accident, where the breaks do not work and
we always hit the telephone pole
with the magic rug rolling, where the man always lures us in
with my temptations
with the poison that the government distributed through the water
and turned everyone into zombies

Myself is laughing
at Remembering for
creating these games and fantasies
which trigger Body to alarm
over all of the mundane sets
that for this moment we consent to.

The bed is a battlefield
the twisted blankets,
the war
And in the morning, we are wondering
who it was that won ?

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Creative Process

I sat
to capture
the flow of a voice
the caboose of a thought
a shade of uncomforbility
pale or flush

I got
to chase it around the room
stumbling over
bedposts and pens
as its mocking bird
evaded grasps

So I scribbled
the fists full of empty
and put together
a quilt with
the only fragments and letters I knew of,

Wishing that in their place
was the line
the word
the sound that heard
them all home leaking
tiny droplets of oceans.

The Perfect Storm
Black holes
worm holes
mole holes are all constructed
because their creators do not see
if their impact will cause mountains.
It does not envision a masterpiece
for all its creations.

It just is
it is in its nature
it is compelled
as I am too...

So here I fall
into that conundrum
whether I could or if I should
whether to strike a match of your
interest or
capture against its will,
a free moment

or if
you would just blank nod, apathetically smile, and
try to silence
the crickets playing a symphony in your head.

Because if all I create are symphonic insects,
isn't that beautiful enough?