I would build a collaboratory
if I could…
if you would…
Isn’t that the substance of
our relationship to G-d?
There starfish would dance with
sundials over milkweed groves.
What would say the witchs’ dell?
That “nary a whisper would
whimper ‘where to? where to?'”
And what says the merry,
Faring well? “Blesseth be
the sky, so true, so true
For only it enraptured
bequeaths ‘got you. got you.'”
I hand the horn
Did you know
you're in the band?
We play together
Here on the page
through the air
rounding out the noise
Prisms or palaces
the star-kissed view
pulls then propels
my vision forward.
I never write like this
In this a prison
of no One’s making
I sit star-kissed
I hope in your view.
Hope for the dapper
On bended knee
Offering apology, resilience, forgiveness.
Extend the hand, the palm, the leaf
Joyfully executing the past
No longer in prologue
In the knowledge of now.
In a beginning there was not a thing
What Propels us forward, my dearest friend?
Let the room sway the oceans bubble up
Let Midas burn Let the Light Enter Here.
“From now until further notice, you’re no longer allowed to tell me how YOU feel.” A gentle and wonderful woman (and friend) told me he said to her.
The words were never said to me verbatim…but their substance was. I know how it feels to be seen as “less than” through the eyes of a man you think you love, you live with, you dream of a future with.
I told her what I had learned what feels like long ago but only hours sometimes “now, you must write how you feel.”
Today I realized that when I began writing again, after years of abuse and – that why I write and why so often it’s so personal is – I know what it feels like not be seen. But it’s more than me simply wanting to write how I feel now. I want the possibility for you, dear one to feel seen.
This is not to say I want you, dear reader to see me. What I want, what I strive to do is say “I see you.”
I hope at some point along the way I do that for you. That’s what my favorite writers do for me.
And until then I won’t stop trying.
I am dumb while I stare at these hands
Gaze on this face
Muted by this strange pink that is usually so familiar.
I can’t help but laugh… silently
at the seaming illusion that’s my own line
My own form
My own splotches of yellows, reds and grays.
Forgetting myself, losing myself in the way that is not comforting
Not like that world that I daydreamed in my childhood.
That world I was so convinced existed somewhere just out of my vision.
That I could touch if I only held my breath long enough or stared long enough at the gossamer strands lacing the sunlight.
Instead, it is muted. Dull, without a glistening pulse or familiar rhythm.
An absence of…something. Like that place you land when you fall between wake and sleep and before your body jerks you awake.
I want to wake.
I want to feel vital. Alive. Thrilled.
Moved to action.
Moved to touch
Moved to tears
or gut splitting laughter.
But, I am muted. Not even truly restless.
But that ache is there. That ache to reach past this thick, viscous, wall
That’s coated my flesh, my innards my breath with nauseating stillness.
That ache is my hope. My solace. My resolution that this will pass.
That this is only a moment.
A moment poised in stillness, while my body rests in emptiness.