homecoming

i get tired of being me,
of not being what fits you.

i spend my time away, fitting,
preparing a new mold to step into.

but the new structure is never ready,
and forces me home.

and when i'm home,
i weep, and never want to leave.

i get tired of not being me.

I've lassoed the moon and let it go,
I've ice-climbed in a thaw,
I've sun bathed in blackness,
and walked free an outlaw.

I've sung in muffled halls,
I've crushed diamonds with coal,
I've eaten liquid things,
and cauterized a soul.

I've eaten hunger,
I've run on empty,
I've slaved for freedom,
and starved on plenty.

Some people lose,

Some people win,
Some are confused
And many give in.

When opposites reflect,
and good men kill,
don't forfeit your honor
for something you feel.

new heat

Some nights are wombs,

nine months of waiting for sound
on new strings

new-born from the old things,
and soft like the new beings

just hatched from the shell.

I worshiped my frozen ways, counted on yesterdays,

those with the vacant rays—all light the same.

Each day that same morning light, ripened from oversight,
coated my throat with night—drunk I became.

And soon light was empty, bare; shine of the devil’s glare,
I lay beneath despair, writhing in pain.

Nine months in a dark cocoon, wrapped in my linen tomb,
I broke the ninth full moon, screaming my name.

New heat from the morning star, beams shot in golden bars,
I stood without a scar—Hope was my name.

I bathed in the morning dew, dressed in the morning hue,
All this in front of you—birth has no shame.

This one beam I waited for, one spark to light ten more,
Ushers me through the door, time and again.

And I hope for tomorrow:
It too could be new if I part with today,
let go of the manna I’ve hidden away.

floating grass

The need to reach out to someone, anything
is quieted by the emptiness, the no one.
When you never give back,
your outlets decay
and grow elsewhere.
Like a candy machine asking no coin,
they've sold every ear that listened,
every piece of sincere caring,
every scrap of wanting you to be happy,
for nothing.
Your coins were never theirs to keep;
you bought their love for nothing
and investing nothing, saved nothing
for today,
for the need for someone today.
With nothing sweet to abate your need
to feel understood,
you wander through meadows of floating grass--
a bed of squandered roots--
seeking something unspent.

My fortune useless,
I wander the sties and stalls
for somewhere to sleep.

light rain

raining crystal
shards of light jumping
exploding into crowded black
isolated governments of sharp
pieces of energy
petrified fire
white lines with no halo
no glow
but sharp edges between opposite
ideas that spark

It is the time I spend alone most favored and most hated.
Not all at once, but separate bliss and terror.

valor

keeping things
even from yourself
riding on the high of self-justification
of sour grapes
of self-assurance

ride it like the setting sun
ride it triumphant into darkness
embrace the cold
you still burn from bitterness
you independent furnace.

ride it as long as you can
be happy you have something to burn
you will need it traveling sunless
or suffer feeling what's really heating you:
nothing.

the sum of parts

I wanted to learn.
But things I learned were shattered by feelings.
Knowledge was tested by joy and pain,
two teachers with new ideas, with new knowledge.
Knowledge came into me and fought its own.
I learned and unlearned the lessons of living,
admitting it was all true, though all in conflict.
I knew less and less the more I learned.

Knowledge was a shattered picture,
and none of the pieces went together,
a puzzle of oddly shaped parts
and no answers at the edges.
Knowledge was plural and unsympathetic to its parts.
I stared at the pieces, all crying for validation
and could do no more than admit their existence.
I couldn't discard or embrace one over the other.
I knew nothing singular.
I had no title or definition for all the pieces that made me.
I lived in a constant struggle for finality, for definition,
for one meaning.
But I was many,
and torn to pieces as I learned each one.

Steve, Jess, Sara

When I had the best, even the worst was gold.
The blizzard that turned our faces white
and froze the tops of our feet
only made us warmer.
The smell in that hostel made us laugh.
Money was paper; ice was water.
I couldn't be made to realize a frown where I saw it
or a sigh when I heard it.
Loneliness was an ancient word; yearning--even older.
A language lost to time.
Fatigue was a peaceful lure; neither dream
nor reality could be told apart.
I was safe from fear
because I couldn't lose.
I had them,
And they were everything.

slate

I get sick when I remember.

My stomach churns the undigested pieces of you, the pieces you forced into my mouth, the jagged slate of your affection. I choked while you smiled. How could you smile? You saw my throat convulse. I bled into the napkin you provided and forced appreciation. "The bad is good for me" you made me say a hundred times like sitting in at recess writing lines. But the bad was bad for me. My poisoned blood was foreign to my veins. I almost died.

But I didn't die. I was saved by mirrors. I saw the person I once knew, the one defined by me. It's not your fault I believed you, believed I was something else . . . for you. It's not your fault I avoided mirrors. I let you own me, but I missed myself. I never should have left me; I should have left you. I should have taken care of myself. I should have loved myself enough to be alone.

But I believed a lie
And I get sick when I remember.