Stitches.

A jutting break, like scavenged glass

taken from the eyes to reflect

the void in all it’s breath-taking, raging

repercussions, sliding down

into the empty doors, these empty houses

we built for the purpose of making

and re purposing

our souls,

as we kick up dust,

just to watch it settle.

A hunger, built into form

trailing it’s sleeves in this filth

we made peace with eternally

and entombed our grievances

to remind us

to keep us humble

in face of extravagance

in the face of snippet successes

after years of starvation

created a heart out of scraps

and scrap metal..

(A collection of faces

still stand, perfectly spaced

delicately in shadows

outside our windows still.)

A soft dip, in the absence of

a slowly rotating cusp

that some days hangs back,

sometimes stands besides

and sometimes, drags our limbs forwards

in unintentional, yet necessary pursuit

of absolute

honesty, within and in

expression, even if it’s hidden

within colours and shapes and lines

bird song and harpsichord

black inks and coyote skulls..

The images may be fanciful – the words full of whimsy

but the toys we built are to help us

face the crushing weights we carry.

There is no accurate description,

there is no definitive explanation,

the abstracts carry as much emotion

as our precision may attempt to capture.

The diversion may be just as meaningful,

as the descriptive accuracy wills,

and the mask are built to create,

like all things expressive – to face,

or to gift.

We translate the best we can, we try

to explain or to understand,

or to hint or hide within new ways of contending

with the less easily shared

between one and the next

between us and ourselves

or for no other reason but the burning

and the dire, inescapable need –

to take action!

When we ourselves are less gifted

in the social dancing,

and in that way in which we may say

from me to you

and to be.

And, it is many things – these lines that evolve to symbols,

shapes in the vision of internal..

It is my gift to you

its my breath, misting the glass of life

it’s my fight against silence, entombed

it’s my therapist and my comfort

it’s my appreciation, spinning circles

it’s all my senses expanding outwards

it’s my strength, holding me upwards

it’s all my weakness, and the frailty cut in half

it’s my Fears, holding me down as I dream

it’s the sweetness I taste as well as the bitter knots

it’s the process, holding out my limbs in dance

it’s my best language, and perhaps my worst

it’s how I deal, how I walk, how I stay

and how I show my deepest love

it’s my rage repurposed

it’s the expression of my passions for this world,

and all those within it

for the little things starved that I wish to feed

it’s the overlooked – the small details gleaned

that give me the most joy, and startle me back from my shell..

it’s my faith, but never a religion, keeping my heart

it’s my seething, and my pacing along lone alleys at night

it’s how I show my gratitude for the things that reach me and touch

how I face history, and contend with all that cuts deep to hurt

it’s how I survive, day after day, and how I give back

as I can..

And it’s very necessary, to me – it’s a need

or the shifting wings within

would surely devour me..

Perhaps some people have no other choice left,

they are driven, either by some jewel before them

or due to that which haunts, which walks

behind them at an even pace, with a crocodile smile

and they only manage to hurry one step ahead

or perhaps, it’s a little of both -

a sheer bright joy, a heart breaking, the most

urgent of feelings

that need to translate to something making sense

that feels more real, or appropriately there

that holds the weight that matches the worth

that can make those abstraction

into something new, with that familiar equivalence, built of rebirth

(the ragged wings that hold us

the feathers that contain us

the magnificence around that drives us

the silence that moves in music

the little draw within our palms

the currency of living, and creating

new steps in this never- ending, unravelling

twisted rusted staircase

never cease, even when they hold bricks

along across our paths, and on our backs

we are reminded

like all the keys we collected

there is always a door that fits

between our eyes, within our hearts,

always a single branch that has the power

so simply, to inspire a whole new set of words...)

And the empty space that lives,

somewhere between trees and Moon and ribs

holding our hands through

the darkness, light, darkness

in lines of ink and typewriter keys

sifting through the glimmering hourglass sands..

When we waver before the abyss,

while we dream out the vagrant visions,

we exist like dreamers, creating as if it were a mission

dropped from the lip to lock to tongue to key

like a snake twice bitten, once rewritten

endlessly perfected yet naturally haphazard

as we are..