Drab Words

Drab words dribble down my mouth like driblets onto paper into indelible thoughts and as they fall I become my own deity.

Drab words:

A housefly hums middle octave, key of F.

Race is the canvas of impression.

A heliotrope turns toward the sun.

Formal is normal.

Deepest

Go deep, fuck, lose, converge, purge, break, sweat tears rich with love, burn mother fucker burn, climb mother fucker climb, span the entire mountain range, cut the mountaintop if it doesn't please you, cut your throat, sing songs, burn, shed tears of joy, burn, rise, ember, speak your mind, slice your heart, make a wish, smile and fade out.

O Captain! My Captain!

Every day is an adventure—it's your story. The day unfolds how you see fit. It does this because you are the writer—you are bold, you are strong, you are kind and you are gentle. You are the writer—you are the captain.

Put wildflowers along the decks and destroy the stop button on that ol' record player. Fall back. Order your comrades to do the same, order them to fall back. Order them to take in that endless ocean before them, order them to take it in.

Now breathe, breathe, breathe—it's all yours.

Vintage (Rearranging the Stars)

It’s funny, a star missing its step, forgetting its part in the night, constellating incorrectly. And yet it still feels so utterly complete as I trace its passage across the sky. I examine its patterns, the mother bear and her son and charming little Venus. I begin to laugh. I begin to laugh at all this. I bite my fingers and lick the silver from the cut. I think about the planets orbiting one another, aligning themselves to their own rhythms, as I sway to mine. And I am satisfied when we undulate in unison, and I am more courageous with each sway and I am more merry until I come apart. My shame putters toward the light crowning the cluster. And what was once funny is now holy until a new star misses its step, forgets its part in the night, constellates incorrectly.

If

And I am chasing a butterfly (or is it the butterfly—the one I capture?). Yellow wings, everything light, even me and I am unable to think clearly. Clean. I am a baby. To imagine my life all at once, I rest my head on a stone.

Dust makes its way into my eyes, resting on my pupil and how I love all of this. How playful the problem is...the butterfly flys away.

My eyes are burning—it is day. I am twenty-seven today. I make coffee. I pee. I have already quit smoking cigarettes. I open the blinds. It will be a beautiful day, for it is a beautiful day everyday, and I drink my coffee silently in my room.

There's a lot of energy in my frustration and my heart is a filter.

I keep my energy within as my negativity seeps out.

Choreography (With All Your Might)

Today is a dawdy day, except the crows and my father talking outside my window. They drift away. I follow them whose dance I find uninteresting.