Jam

I am bothered

All of my poems start with "I"

See here

What I loathe

What better to say when each word starts in my eyes

With each glance at life

Every oozing ounce

Filtered through my "I",

I open doors of my mind with my "I's 

I tell you the feelings in the front seat of my stomach

and you ask me what "I" want-

I want to return to Earth more often than lately

To fold back into myself when I walk too far away

Birth Death Revival and Decay 

Apples falling from trees

I saw one rotting between the street and the other street

I saw myself inside the core

I crush the sweet fruit with my firm shoe 

It's jam now and the children run across it

I am just jam

I am my every happening mashed into one body

A body that "I" am only borrowing 

Ancient teachers tell us to be swinging doors but how am I to be anything 

when there is no me at all

There is no me for them to find and no "I" to evolve-

Revolve

I am just jam

I Want to Face Desert Wind

i do not want to cry about my father anymore

i want to eat a plum instead

i want to roll on the floor 

back and forth 

for a very long time.

i do not want to look at my hair in the mirror and sigh

i want to hold my belly after a meal and say, 

"should we head home?"

i want an old woman to divulge her love affairs unto my ears

i want to braid my sister's hair but she cut it

i want to face desert wind again 

i want to face desert wind.

i can't have my cabin yet

cut off from the world 

a holy ground away from clutter and quick thinking 

warmth emanating from within 

damp soil, loose strands of my hair

it will hang- it will trace the tops of my shoulders 

like a lover's fingerprint 

the cabin where i will write my books

the cabin where i will age in front of myself

 I forget what a good, hot bath can do to me.

folding boxes

one crease in and one fold out. boxes built, stacked. done. another and another. i'm in a meditation.

the rise and fall of my lungs: so new but tainted (slightly), there is a rhythm to my practice .i wonder if you're thinking about me naked. 

boss walks in and we talk about nothing. i recognize i don't try to talk when i don't feel inclined to anymore.

a new concept i'm taking naturally to. 

my weeks can be evil. they start so routine. 

i could predict the weather if only she behaved the same way. 

but the weekends are holy. freedom lingers long. i eat bad food and kiss you often. 

my moments alone are blissful, even still. i don't die without the soles of your feet against mine in bed but

maybe i do die a little. 

it's nice that way. is it bad if i prefer things like that?

if i rather you near than far?

if i prefer your laughter over dry desert wind?

that is all my ears heard for a very long time. 

your laugh is the second coming of christ. he was a drop out, too.

i love you and want to do boring things with you. 

i love you and somehow love myself even more than before.

you have placed the cleanest mirror in front of me and 

have forced me to look at who i am.

it has all been fast and facing my own face was jarring 

but you showed me it. it mattered that it was you. 

the pages in my journal don't get sick of my tender hand writing your name over and over 

like a mantra.

what we feel for one another is a thing of it's own.

i like watching it take shape alongside you.

anything alongside you is plenty and right and supple and ripe.

one more box and the stack will topple. 

What I have

All that I have is able to be cradled in my two human hands. I do not have a car. I do not have walls in my house. I do not own things. I do not have a hold on one single thing. Not at all. I can not say that I have anything but the air dancing atop my two palms. I have love and I have right now. All else will bend, break, fade, melt, evaporate into the place all things inevitably float off to. I have love. I have love. I have love. The lines on my hands prove it. There is a weight to it. It is what I have. 

tonight's sentiments