Untitled Her arms were large with coffee-stain freckles. Her hair, red like carbonated rage leaking. Her grin she forever pulled so that her upper lip tightened and weathered away, Forever baring her teeth in a sneer that used to be a smile. Sneering at us. Because we all still have our upper lips. Untitled The painted glitter that sheathes your weak eyelids and lips. Shining, wrinkled tissue. Uncomfortable and burning Dried, paper skin. You are in an extravagant cocoon. Be careful not to blink or smile, cause you might tear through and not like what you see. Equinox In the ballet of spheres we balance. A brief moment of perfection in a celestial dance. And we celebrate with red confetti fading to life. Red paper that covers and brightens, and swirls around us. Thrown by chilling gusts that fly through brittle, wooden fingers, and shake the paper butterflies into soft applause. Crunchy halos of tissue and scales that cling to cotton tweed. Are our costumes of festivity. A celebration littered with beautiful death. The end of life, marked with celestial jubilation. Zipper I once looked behind me in my bathroom mirror and saw something I never knew I had... a zipper running down my spine. Wondering what would happen, I grabbed the metal piece and slowly pulled the zipper downward letting my skin loosen and open like a blossom of flesh. My muscles' grip faded, and they fell from my back hitting the ground with wet smacks by now, my skin was loose enough for me to peel it from my bones, And then I let my skeleton fall to the floor with dry, hollow clanks. And I looked in the mirror and I saw someone I've always known but I'd never seen... me. Post-it Notes From God When the heavens tilt and the sun becomes shy and the trees humble themselves by sacrificing their bright adornments I like to stand in the grass and stare at the land covered in brown leaves like hundreds of crunchy post-it notes from God with the words "I'm still here" scrawled on each one. Enlightenment To know the greatness of all the universe, stand under the night sky and look up. Hundreds of thousands of diamonds studding the celestial sphere. Icy pinpricks winking playfully And shine a flashlight straight up see the beam stretch and disappear and realize that you have made another diamond in the sky for another dreamer, somewhere else, to see. Cafe Mocha Sky Peering into a porcelain window, a brown pool yielding to another place. Melted cream vapors swirling in a warm pocket like clouds. The sky held in a coffee mug A metal wand hand-held I lowered into the pool. Cold metal heated, disrupting creamy tendrils. And I was stirring the sky above me. Meaning Crystal blades Cold and hard coating and refracting. Shooting me up with beams of light. I want to crack them open, and that's where I'll find what the meaning of all this is. Tiny lights unmoving, unfaltering faint yet piercing blind yet watching. I want to gather them up and breathe them in, and that's where I'll find what the meaning of all this is. No words no numbers no people to tell me what I already know. I find for myself, within those tiny things, what the meaning of all this is. Roses You will never really smell the roses till you clutch them by the thorns and drink the blood that runs down your arm. The roses will smell sweeter when you drink the blood they draw from you. Accept it for what it is. Untitled I wish I could grip the equator and force the earth to a stop. I'd arrange it so it was perpetually night in my time zone and I'd sleep for three days. Then I'd give the world a light nudge and see how I feel about time again. I'd let it speed up until everything was normal again. And then I'd feel fine. Figure-8 Yesterday never happened and tomorrow we'll never see I am I You are You here and now will always be People pulse through city streets and globes will shift with every day but all on some eternal "is" that will never go away. Man and the Machine Two dancers one in red one in grey. Red dances vibrant. It is alive Circles are organic blood pulsates through the leaps. Grey pulses lightly percussion is its song it mimics red in cannon stiffly, but determined. Red flies faster 'cross stage and grey flies just as fast. Stiffly, but determined. Red is growing dimmer, fades to blue. Grey grows more alive, fades to pink. Pink is dancing fiercely. Blue slows and sinks. And now the stage belongs to pink, no longer grey And blue, no longer red, has died below it.