Sleeping Legs

Of this do we soon regret:
without first
jumping at the chance.

I dreamed I could jump
high as I believed.
My legs are springy.
Not light, not dense, not

I can propel in the
not-wine-like sky
not-tea-like air
And spaces only revealed

Under the watch of my brain,
as my body flies, floats, moves
over roofs, walls, stairs, branches,
But that’s just it:

I believe my legs when awake
Are no different under sleep.
I’m no earth, no bone,
no flesh in my dreams,

But a morphing electric,
A life in infinite phases
or just below,
I am faceless, nameless,

relatively undefined,
an arrow, a logical cat.
And that’s why reality
is a bore.

It sucks all the lives
out of dreaming,
keeps creativity in out skulls,
our legs locked beneath our skin

and static truths, like these legs,
only ignite
behind the soft white jelly
of our balmy eyes.


I want to reach
my arms
where suction cups
are not seen
but function like flowers
in a dense(wild)shade
and are content with
reverse bloom.
I want to reach
my arms.


Break through, she said.
I’m waiting for the break through.
Third story light hums like the tides
I’m a warped ceiling, see,
the incamdescents are stuck shiny
in plastic waves or else
I’d answer to the bookshelves
again above my head. I’m carpeted, too
I just don’t know it yet
until I shut my eyes in the dark.

What a pitiful color
manufactured. beige, off-white, tan
It’s the color of indulgent boredom
feigning intetest in all the unexplored
It’s like closing a book after chapter 1.
Or maybe before that.
you know the story ends
except for crutch of surprise
you’re out of this place
I’m waiting for the break through.
I’m waiting for the break through.
I’m waiting for the moon
and the clean morning,
Hiding from what they say again.

But why
Again and again and now
we practice pleasing the sun?
It’s alright, as long as
you think like that I’m waiting
for the break

After all, the grass is always
greener in the day.


I suppose I’m in a corner, here
Yep, you figured me out.

But that doesn’t mean a thing to me
except I have to watch my back
and keep on my toes
not shoes but
some other form of eyeballs.

This desk is almost pink, I should
have told you to smile
like you mean it.

Now I live with guilt that
I named your life purposeless.

No, that’s not it either.
You’re alive and I’m alive and
you can do
whatever you wish.

Do Not Fear the Pencil

I say it again;
do not fear the pencil.

The earth is around me,
I am in a bowl.
I wanted to write everything.

There is so much,
but start small.
When I walk closer to the door,
I hear running water

Or today, when I cleared my mind,
raindrops and stray globules fell
plodding and patting leathery leaves
behind me,
I almost climbed a dead tree
to sit in the seat is offered

but it was slippery from rain
and the wood was weak,
so I pushed my legs back into the wind.

Write only honestly,
do not lie about your thoughts.
It shows.

So, you may wonder what you are doing
a few times every month
as your mind settles and clears,

But keep pushing the lead
away from your heart
Although it moves more slowly
than the return to the next line,
this is what you have decided to do.

You may not wear a mask,
you may not write for fame,
nor for beauty, nor fluidity.
It is you writing you,
the pencil suspended in your hand.

Or, write the lies
you live as well,
it’s all elegant truth.

Growing up in the ocean state

Summer days were waxing moons
and waning sunsets
wandering the water’s edge
in a blackened promised city
wearing heeled boots and soft wallets;

We spent mornings in day dust cafΓ©s
Or diners sinking into the sediment,
then gathered our fill of stars
with pink lemonade and holed socks;

Anything to keep our heads underage:
bakeries, bedrooms, monogrammed towels,
the sound of our own footsteps
jogging close to our backs.

The dark water shifts it’s gaze
in gravity of the one-eyed sky,
But this time it’s blank
instead of a kaleidoscope:

Each time a wave reached for us
a hand would only go out so far
and end straining the sparkling sand.

These were the colors of our eyes,
not pearly white or blue or brown,
But something seen from a lifeguard’s perch
in search of an absolute moon.


Maybe the reason we don’t know who we are
is because
we need to test ourselves
like a litmus for pH.

Or, if we are lukewarm water,
we cannot tell the end
or the beginning of ourselves
unless the edge is hot or cold.

Neutral. Lukewarm.
This is what I am.
no passion, no desires,
nobody calls on me.

But it is this space
that I find my freedoms.

No hands catch me at night
but the bones of my own,

At times, my skin is gray
when I wish for change.
I am alive.
This is my abyss.

I think here, I embrace the smile.
I am just one dragonfly
in this peaceful
lukewarm space.