i am

(unfiltered, unedited)

i am decay
i am thoughts, fleeting and dreams evaporating
i am mist, fog
i am divide between attraction
i am battered memory, dispersing cloud
i am ungluing of collage, scattering in breeze
i am glass, reflection in a puddle
i am streak from tear on cheek
i am ache colliding with burning eyes and tightened throat
i am movement of the ripple through water, curtain, leaves
i am friction between blades
i am gradient between light and shadow
i am essence of the vibration of music
i am grasp from muscles tightened
i am the state between dreaming and waking
i am perhaps
i am ghost
i am the longing to rest on clouds
i am wind flowing through hair
i am dashed line, satellite to surface
i am force in wires communicating
i am another to you, one to me
i am beginning end nothing everything
i am spirit soul life self

morning thoughts

here
was at one time the only option, or so I remember – but now all is tainted with uncertainty, doubt. hesitant to accept anything too readily, risking naive, gullible, loss, disappointment, disillusionment – even memories are untrustworthy. truth, reality – if they exist in any objective fashion – are hard to come by, impossible in fact, given my eyes covered with the lenses of subjectivity, my ears fitted with cochlear filters. purity is a lie. there are no guarantees, only an unending mess of entangled possibilities and what ifs and neither here nor there. an endless straddling of body thoughts head heart world dreams… there is only faith.
and death.

at least, it appears that way.

balance

a void carved into the sphere
ceaselessly spinning

the green exterior
(green and brown and pavement)
is red within.
she bleeds
when the void is carved,
when the vein is punctured.
her blood is needed somewhere else—
needed or wanted
a fine line—
but moved regardless
(not destroyed, no matter how forceful,
for she can create no more within
except for without)—

positives and negatives
always add up
to that single turning zero
on which I stand;
and the positive in my hand
cannot be in yours
for the rules always apply
(or at least until proven guilty)—

the potter’s hands
covered red
mold her
form her anew;
a ballerina
once within the earth,
thrown into a second dance
a tighter pirouette
now spinning, spinning
on a ridged metal floor.

0bl1v10n

the silhouettes of warm bodies in the lights
flashing, jumping
blue and green, add purple.
subtract green.
red. bright white.
blinding.
the bass throbs in my chest
beating, beating
my heart overthrown
(had it really beat before this moment?
I cannot recall…)

black balcony above
black railings, encircling
shadows hang beneath
in fact, the room itself a shadow
swallowing me
lights stark, blinking, beating

an unexpected breeze wound
somehow
through all those bodies,
all those legs,
and in the darkened room
found its way to my skin
brushed my body,
perched on the pit’s edge.
it whispered of the stars
finding the mute blackness above
offensive

now superfluous sweaters
tied around waists
accentuating hourglass figures—
unable to stop the flow of sand
leaking from cerebral storage
—arms raised with scene in hand
miniaturized, experience captive.
presumably preserved
but the resultant museum
made of yes’s and no’s,
the purest geometries,
discarded the maybes:
framed but filtered,

the ghost is dangerously convincing,
tempting.

unnoticed
the fan above
spins
(distant and lacking affect)
rhythmically
evaporating