summers are places
i just had to turn up the music to block out the arguing couple in the street, young loves with nasty tongues. self destructive driving, insufficient appreciation. a nation of entrepreneurs . my mom and i used to joke that the reason the cats would only go outside at night was because there were less things for them to see and be scared of. she collects blue glass. i filled a blue vase for her birthday with yellow flowers and put it in between the blue glass salt and peppers shakers centered by the four blue placemats, and not placentas like text edit automatically replaces on my father the provider's new macbook. i used to say everything blue was beautiful, but now i'm more likely to wear purple. around the fire, which i was so close to my outer layer of skin burnt off: Do you believe in god? the mother who used to be a whore asked and i said no but i believe in good and am trying to live my life dedicated to love and compassion but this makes no sense to her she is far too caught up the details because she needs a base of artifact and examples but we find beauty in the metaphors and only look for the soul in things. we have felt like gods we have treated every new experience as an opportunity to learn something new about living it is thanksgiving everyday and we always enjoy the joy when we love we value another beings happiness above our own and we love all good people we meet and we do our best to output our joy but sometimes we succumb to anxiety
i could not tuck away my anxiety and i knew it was all in the back of my brain and plus everytime i looked in a mirror i saw colors pouring out of my face.
blood orange sky
I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that
gravity, you pull me like an impatient child-
waring at my skin and breasts
until I sag
you call to me-like a wench
hands lifting up from a grave
causing ripples and cracks
where smiles once rested
feet crawling from eyes where tears
ran like rivers claiming valleys.
Tell me earth? Why do you crease me
where i once curved
I'm forgetting again
that my eyes can only see as far
as the horizon permits
I was born from you, wench
like clay from my hands
and your time calls me not down-but back
like a mother calling to a child in a field at dusk.
you, in perpetual embrace-"come baby
your bones must be tired now, I know better"
my skin crawls to you
a devious child on a long, late car ride home
loose laces and sticky palms
lulled by bumps and rumbles
-and gentle voices
in you
destination trusted
with you
reversing my roam