of what the planets think of us

Planet:

of Greek origin,

“planetes”

--wanderer.

We study:

nine

celestial bodies,

circling in

perfect

harmonious

orbit,

never deviating

from the

path

yet

still

wandering

through

white

star speckled

universe.

You

and

I—

also planetary.

On an

unchanging course,

yet

does the planet

itself

realize

its

imminent

path

when rushing

by meteors,

asteroids,

other planets--

or does it

believe itself

to be

only

a solitary

wanderer,

doomed to

chart its

own 

unseeing

way,

heedless of

others

making the

exact

journey—

and does it

forget

that it

has been there

&

done it all

before?

Innards

It comes back--

swift,

sudden!

Hits me

hard as blankness

in the gut—

heaviness

of solid

shame,

tremors

of

cloudy

doubt,

a single sliver 

of

icy fear.

Makes me

go cold.

I bite

my lips,

draw blood—

keep it all

away.

Guilt

at my

toe-tips

now—

remember?

Don’t/can’t

(won’t?)

forget.

Reevaluate

everything,

rewrite the story!

But-- can’t

because:

story

already

told.

Drawing

down my

skin—

hard

metallic

lies.

This “was”

still

“is”

&

“is”

has never

been

&

you don’t

deserve

other-wise.

“Have you forgiven him?”

Smells like

smooth

gin

clinking

over

glassy fear

as insecurity

mixes quietly in.

“Have you forgiven yourself?”

Hurts deep,

rich like

a throbbing

brokenness

ripped open—

display

it all

brilliantly scarlet

once more.

Comes out
aching forward,
vulnerability
of the softest
velvet. 

Tuck it back in!

How embarrassing

it still

exists.

Please,

no one

should

see this

part

of my

innards.

to be breathers

My breath

reaches out

into the world,

crystalized

white,

fingering 

dark evening air,

cutting sharp

through

layers,

asking to be

received,

to be blessed.

Watch

it spiraling

both

outward

&

inward,

sweeping by

us in

a tender

caress—

“Osmosis

of the soul,”

he tells me.

I like it so much,

I can’t help

but

smile.

A passing through,

a transferring over,

an equalizer—

assimilation of ideas,

gradually,

unconsciously,

wonderful.

My soul filters

out slow,

trickles

into

the world,

gives,

receives—

a small

piece

of his

returns,

nestles

into my thoughts.

I keep it there

for now,

its warmth

reminds me—

your thoughts

are not

alone.

How beautiful

to be
breathers,

to be
thinkers,

to be

all that is human.

We commune

in

the simplest,

in the most

intricate

of ways.

inconsequential/ever meaningful

Today,

a discovery:

a twig

of

fallen pine.

I rolled

prickly needles

‘gainst

cold, numb

fingers--

if only to feel

the

bitter

pain

that comes

from being

alive.

It did not hurt

as much

as I thought

it would.

Closely examined:

green needles

delicately

interwoven,

ever-green 

laced,

fastened wholly

into bark,

immovable,

fragile,

boasting only

brown tinges

of mortality:

perfect

in

natural

imperfection.

Its beauty spiritual

in that it

encapsulates

a certainty

of being

not present

in my life

at the moment.

Promised depth,

enigmatic secrets--

smells of

green sharpness,

bitter

against the 

raw

winter air.

Cuts

tenderly

into my

own.

White

is the color

of my soul

when I

examine it,

twisting it

like pine

beneath my

fingers,

feel

its prick.

Sharp

needles

blur once

tears

come,

shed easy

over

small things

that mean

too

much--

if only

to me. 

death imposes upon my attempt at life, is rebuffed

I am too

alive

for this place.

Death

has curled up,

cozy

in the corner.

It decays quietly,

pervading the air

with the stench

of stale despair,

coating 

us

with grayness,

stripping

us

of hope. 

My blood

pulses

warm,

heavy,

deep—

my veins

are bursting

red

with it.

I

want nothing more

than:

To live.

To touch,

and be touched,

in the simplest,

(run fingers down my skin!)

in the most

profound

(teach me penetrable truths!)

of ways.

To think,

to feel,

to know,

to want,

to desire,

to love,

to live.

Oh, to live!

The wrinkled

are storied,

past tattooed

on their arms,

liver-spotted.

“The End”

is coming

soon.

Their breaths

calculated,

slow—

sucked from

them,

leaves them

hacking up 

memories

&

regrets.

I breathe,

too.

It is dank

and sour

upon the

mid-morning

light.

They are almost

gone.

And

here am

I,

wanting

nothing more

cliché

than

to live.

Are you "you" enough yet?

First thing I notice:

her eyes.

They flit

about the room,

pale and questioning;

she’s filtering

truth

from my words,

mining

them for gold.

She holds up white hands:

empty—

nothing

of value

(to her)

in my speech.

I can’t

convince her

other-wise.

So I listen.

Hair falls

chaotic

across her shoulders:

a fine mist

of rusty disorder

that mirrors

her thoughts.

She pulses with

an urgent desire:

to love,

to be loved!

Nothing more

but

everything else.

Her happiness

has pooled

silver

at her feet;

it slips through

my hands,

dissipates into

tile.

She doesn’t notice that it’s gone.

Or maybe she does,

but this façade

so carefully built

drains her;

replaces joy

with metallic smile,

cold logic,

aloof cool.

I want to shake her--

(doesn’t she know?)

wrap her in warmth

(how can she not?)--

bathe her soul

in healing balms

of belief.

She’s too far gone.

I can see it

in her eyes—

there’s too much

of her

tucked behind them.

The more

I reach,

the further

she runs,

the deeper

she hides,

wrapping herself

in play-pretend

disguised

as reality.

And when she

turns into the blackness,

I cry.

explication of my own

The heart wants what the heart wants,

they say.

Only sometimes,

I wish:

the heart did not want.

(impossible,

it tells me:

to lust

is my

nature.)

Or at least,

did not want

so much.

(the nature of lust

is desire;

desire

is gluttonous,

feeds on want,

grows.)

Or maybe,

that it knew

more what it wanted—

shake it,

magic 8 ball style.

Tell me:

“yes”

or

“outlook not so good.”

Only please not:

“cannot predict,”

“ask again later.”

Life is vague enough already:

a myriad of speeding colors

rushing past my cheeks.

It

asks me questions

I cannot answer,

takes me places

I used

to know

by heart. 

Fade out,
double-exposure:
a French film
of loss
(black & white)
would not have
as much
want
as this.