8.22.11 - Coal

You have to understand,
I wish that I could write about a love like that.
It hasn’t yet come.
There have been tulips, mountain tops, rooftops and wisdom.
There have been kisses under rain drops,
full moons and orange circus tents.
There have been moments that outshine the rest
and yet still I am found empty.

Press the coal to my lips, Lord.

8.22.11 - Write Like That

I want to write in roman numerals.
I want to write in three/four time,
six rolls of black dice
and climbing&counting the rungs of the train ladder.
I want to write based on miles of
states and separation.
Written numbers of formed connections,
kisses, heartbeats
and once loves, wilted.
I wish my fingers were pens,
my skin paper, this moment all documented.
I want to write the slow sound
of your deep breaths when you are sleeping.
Every one of your shadow words like:
cloud, rainbow, shooting star, lucky cigarette,
free shot of whiskey, quick conversation with a stranger.
It’d be nice to write like that.

I have the most amazing boyfriend in the entire universe. He's the most gorgeous, sweetest, most charming boy I know, and he's all mine.

Sometimes, I think about it, and it’s like… everything that’s ever sucked in my life was just something I had to go through to get here in my life, with him.

And the feeling I know now, that I get when I’m in his arms, makes me feel like everything was worth it.

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I love you, Momo, My Majik Medicine Man. c:

8.22.11 - ?One/Zero

I fight the letter, the word, the object, the statement.
I resent my own vanity and arrogance.
If I am told to not speak until I am spoken to,
I am just fine singing.
I have a collection of feathers and bones
and two cats that love me.
I am a one hit wonder
with one too many hits.
My mother once read,
“Give me liberty or give me death.”
I want liberty enough.
Enough to go blind, deaf, mute or dumb.
Enough to give away the I
and take whatever I can get.
I am not afraid anymore.
Maybe just a little.

Let’s start with a dance
and then move to a rhythm.
Maybe we can find G-d in all this dust, soot and ash.

I am practicing kissing the ground, Rumi.
I’m not afraid of heights, darling.
I will climb to the top of Babylon
 and talk to God for you.

We’ve been talking about emotion all along,
but if we came down to it all,
it’s simple math.

Your one is worth the stars.
I would be a zero for that.

8.22.11 - Want

There are many things that I want.
I want to be well read.
Rumi, Salinger, Bukowski, Mojgani, Steinbeck and London dripping off my tongue.
I want to ride every train route from the North to the South.
I want to feel the wheels groan, grumble, laugh and sing.
I want a hand in my hand,
a hand on my heart - counting beats -
and a pair of hands held high
like mine
fingers outstretched for all our wanting.
I want bruises, scrapes, battle scars and mayhem.
Flat tires, bounced checks, boxcars
and poems hidden in dress shirts
and favorite dresses.
There are wants inside of me that I can’t speak of.
Wants that are impossible
and ignorant
and uncouth.
I want the world
though my arms won’t reach around it.
I want love,
intangible word that it is.
I want want want.
Then I sleep,
to wake up wanting again.