| i am the frantic butterfly
Floating from flower to flower,
getting what sweet I can.
|
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| a magnetic field of emotion (flowers).
it's all threads in this world
they pull them
this way
no,
that way.
my veins swell
bruised cherry
Nectar
pick at myself
release the fibers
fragments that remind me
i, too, live.
more
than a trip. |
| |
|
warmth and fuzz
and nothing
Ugandans don't have tents
cold and wet
and concrete
I need to slip into something a little less comfortable.
make myself invisible.
and so do you
look inside of yourself
beyond that fuzzy feeling of helping others.
laugh and be happy
and when you get sad
get uncomfortable
get passionate.
take down your tent
sleep wet, shiver
and deprive yourself
ache mercifully.
and change the world
inside of you
miles away.
we start wars
we should stop them. |
| |
| The wind whispers
Through rustling leaves
Sweet nothings in our ears.
The rain runs
Through gutters grey
We stomp and thunder cry.
The dew dives
Grasping grass
We tumble together.
The track chases circles
Around child’s play
With words, we live.
The circle strays
Through fallen ferns
We drift apart.
The car cries
Our spirits sleep
Alone, you fly. |
| |
| Where can I put my feet now?
With the two other bodies crammed next to me,
And her spring-loaded curls resting at my shoulder
I felt the pressure to be what I was, but could not.
The morning sun pushed against the bright blue sky
From behind jagged pieces of earth
she had a pretty sillhuoette.
We drove in upward circles around the peak.
Peaks of frustration.
My mind could only repel from this cliff now, but all I wanted to do was sleep
we never turned back from the previous night.
I woke up in the middle of the day
I left my tent to rest.
Smelling the sun-burnt dust floating up from the mountain
I knew I had reached my temporary destination
Walking through little green aspen tree leaves and golden daylight
I heard the wild sing and their laughter at the stream.
They wrote on water-polished rocks with little pieces of black earth.
A crush’s name, attempted wisdom.
A secret washed off, for later years.
Later the sky would be on fire in certain spots,
like their hearts.
The rest was pitch black.
The ground appeared invisible
we were walking midair circles
Having conversations about being saved
and we burnt the bottoms of our feet
which rested near the fire. |
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