Each night my silk-skin shudders
And my yarn-hair starts to fall
The black matte buttons that give me sight
Grow dim and lose their light.
The nightmares climb up bookcases and
Nest in the dust on my grin
They stretch their claws in my overalls
And kiss the freckles on my chin.
I cannot fight the shadows, so my weaknesses grow strong
Each night the dimness fills my limbs
And seeps into my soles.
I try to whisper, “help me, please”,
But the child-folk cannot hear.
So tears of dust fall from my eyes
And I let the shadows near.
With dawn my shivers grow warmer
And the sun brings back my gleam
I smile painted lips at children
Who see only what they want to see.
My teeth clack loudly for attention
My tongue clicks to be heard.
I yawn, and each ear pops its knuckles
Ready for a brawl.
Who spits molten lead as I?
Whose shivers leave stone teeth and staring eyes
Who bites the blood into prose and parade
Who paints the bruise into shades that don’t fade
Who lets the lightning in to translate the thunder
Who breathes in the glass dust to exhale the wonder
Who faces the fire to transcribe the burns
Who worries the lion to feel its great fur
Who walks under currents to see the sea play
Who jumps in the lava to rescue the clay
Who pines to feel pain just to write in this way?
Thank God, Myself gets to come along
Or the poet in my brain wouldn’t stay.
My breath is blood and flame.
The bars can’t keep Them away.
The slow drum calls my fate!
The BEAT BERATES MY PACE
THE THUDDING COVERS MY SKIN
WE CAN NEVER
Stop being ashamed of love!
Love is not weakness, it is wild roaring strength
It takes nothing to be nothing, to let the wind blow your stars away
It takes raging courage to feel and scream aloud that love
Stop waiting! Stop playing! Don’t pretend for fear of hurt
You do not have to be loved to love
It does not need to be returned.
Sometimes it’s not easy
Sharing a face.
I want to be myself, but
I feel like
I could be replaced.
Ah! I propagate such worthless states
I kindle hearts with eating-haste
I sip the silver lip of eyes
The gourds of flame, of fire and ice
I whirl the spinning and purloin their stares
I whistle and whip up the ferryman’s wares
I catch my breath on the current of thought
And my oil-slick heart bleeds — a lot.
The flickering pantry light
Spark in me such sudden
Why such existential melancholy
When the bulb that illuminates my food
Lit itself only dimly, flooding
The closet with hooded light.
I am a buyer of stories
Your knick knacks mean less to me than the words they form
I am a purchaser of tales and wilds
Unending wind of sunlight and shadow
I survey the stars for the worlds they’ve seen
The tragedies, the brokenness, the heartbreak of dreams.
I steal from the rivers their tumult and song
The hissing of brooks as they babble along
I am a trader of the lifeblood of all,
The stories of men as they rise, love, and fall.
They remind me of courage
A perpetual scream to paint the night with some kind of color.