we weren't good enough for eachother then
now, i'm too good for him
he's too good for me
we're good in theory
we're good at first moment
first thought
wedding dress fantasy cut short
subway love
he reminds me of...

love's faces are in the past, cold memory
salimander sides the road, cold body
fall's hint
deer's fear, of me
me, of them
scattered in green fields where the light can still shine
branches of trees shadow forests,
brining sunset hours early.
the forest,
friendly from afar
only far and distant places are as good as you imagine.

"... I like to think that for that moment, they were stretched out to become a painting, a poem, something for me to design and be and focus on as the world is shaped not by my fingers but by my hopes and I become so deeply embedded I merely forget I am working, reading, eating,..." Disjointed memories in Malik Wilson's first memoir are captured with poetic grace and artisitc mastery. Chronology has little place in teh recounting of bit and pieces of dialogue. Every paragraph is like a correctly answered question by a classmate that you knew, but were hesitant about raising your hand. Malik gets the credit for describing ever day epiphanies and descriptions of love.
With aloof intimacy, Malik uses the physical body to describe teh ways in which humanity digests very day joy and pain.

You really wanna know how i feel about this book? Your book. About that, you should know it's a love affair. It started with a bottle of Rioja and a bowl of store-bought, no butter popcorn. I moved to the back porch and to the front stoop, to my bed and back to the couch. And cried.
It's the moments you pull perfectly from that mess of a kitchen drawer, finding a double A battery among old rolls of tape and loose paper clips, years-old sharpened pencils and magnets with pictures of your face- an older version of a younger you.
It makes me say, yea, I may love you and maybe we'll be married in ten years but then you'll come home on a SUnday afternoon, sweaty from a weekly bike ride with a bike group, like an adult fraternity yielding instant friends. I'll be making coffee for you and have a psychological moment with the pause of real time, moves so slow because my whole world just crashed around me. (and that's the scariest thing in the world)
To put it in other words, i read some of your book and listened to a child play a Steinway Brothers piano. Beginner's hesitance. That lingering, unsure sound of a note played. Am I actually hearing what I hear, the shadows of a note made me want to die, made me think of memories, fading in frozen time.
And now, after all this, I have heartburn from my turkey sausage decision at the Hollywood Diner on 6th Ave. I wa s a vegeatarian once but now I chose the Number 2 for it's patriotic promise. Or greasy ease, Easy like Sunday Morning, like that song you put on Michal's Greatest Hits, Vol. 1. The mix I listened to on the floor, rugburns and red pillows. I shaved my legs every day to be smooth for you. But you were late and that's OK. Because I don't bother with razors much these days. Fuck American freedom, I want French liberation in every strand of hair. Because the woman who wants romance, had it once before. Whimsical and unsafe, uncertain, as frustrating as realizing a perfect reunion was just a dream. My bed was once made of rose pedals and soft goodbye kisses at dawn. My wrist was a charm bracelet of dancing moons and, shit, I loved you so damn much.

I met her when I was a vegan
Her brown skin and black hair told me she liked the water
Her towel gave it away and she swam to me
Heart pouring over cafeteria salad bar crunch
In awe of her honesty
And purity
And open arms
Like an older sister I wanted to hold your hand
And do backflips and the breast-stroke

falling asleep to music like i did when i was traveling. it makes you forget the inconveniences of a night spent alone...

James,
A name
strong enough
for The Fathers Of...
Like the Father of Soul,
And you, Father of the Block.
Father Of A First Family
Family of Firsts
With unquenching thrist
For Corner Liqueor
But sounds of your watchguard eyes
Chaperone a sober scripture
Louder than the sound of sirens and stereos
You walk
We know ...??????

things you can't tell the difference between with your eyes closed and your rational mind drifting to sleep:
the sound of a lawnmower somewhere outside
and
a swarm of bees flying towards you

beads of sweat
like rain on a rooftop
chimneys closed fro the season
rown of red brick stacks remind me of mary poppins
im thinking of an old love
when the new is slow coming
ill think of you, thinking of me
or her, the one
against her ill never compare
against your chest
your heart will beat for a past love
our breath aligning, our hearts out of sync
adn im thinking of moving back to this muggy city
amidst all these memories of curly black chest hair
stuck to me in the summers heat

2AM
It's raining
Drops on pavement
the reflection of the street post in the street from the light of the moon and the street lamps- catches my eye
my shade is mostly shut with a few inches opened to the night's life
im looking onto a world i was not invited to see,
telephone wires stretch from one side of Pennington rd to the other
dipping in the middle, like a tightrope
cars parked and silent, sleeping like their drivers
am i alone?

i wonder what i used to do when the night was too silent to sleep-
max, im sorry. for thinking i could live in the moment and wanting more when it was convenient for me
i meant what i said about you being gentle
i'm sick of .com's
i miss the old friends i don't see and don't recognize the ones i do
i miss my grandmother, but can't cry for her anymore (it's been years)
i want to be back in that floating space when all i had to do was order a sangria, in spanish
i will be back in dc,
i cried to my oldest friend the night before her wedding just like the tears i cried to my sister, the nigth before hers
i wish i deserved to be a bridesmaid
my mom sold my car- that old car that came with a work-ethic and an ego

blue tango
in paris
to the north east
im close to you
i feel your breath
beneath a blue constume
you wait for me
benaeth the weeping whimpers of a willow
above cobblestone and this nights rain
you wait

Dear Soriah

Tia, Hombre, Amiga,
Sister Soriah:
Like five points of a star
We were bright
Like un mar de nubes cradling the moon
We were soft
Like a mescla of Canarian spanish, English, Itallian and Catalan
We were diverse
Dance Dance Dance
Like the wine that streams through our blood
Estamos contento

Weve gone and locked otuselves
once again,
In teh four cornered company
of dear friends.
Singing in a foreign tongue
Cups in "salud" with Canary rum
Laughing, we Dance.
Take a funny photo on her lap
My hand, in a peace sign-
And we laugh
And we laugh

Lost my journal in Lanzarote...

It,s funny, we can talk bhudism and sit cross legged while we commiserate about the woes of american capitalism infiltrating even the corners of this las palmas life. but... put a cup of rum in our hands, and a cigarette in your mouth? And the party has begun, my friend.

cigarette ashes fall
on our heads
from apartments above
and my dreams area now in black and white
orange flames and my dreams are black and white

I was born Jewish
But Karma is my religion.

(To be read next to my painted tree)

Swaying Branches of Burning flame
Blow curious Winds
Through our mountainous stature.
Lighter than we thought,
We waver with every whispered breath
Two, like self-awareness
We Stand
On fertile ground, reminded
Of all things mortal

And with barefeet?
We Speak
And in a solar tongue?
We pray.
And in lunar rhythm?
We dance.

Inventory of a Workshop

Inventory of a Workshop

A Blank canvas like infant purity
Dusty paintbrishes like elderly wisdom
An ax like your grandfathers hand
Old front doors like a blank scrap book
Screwdrivers like crayola crayons
Wet paint like morning dew
Nails of plenty like the salt of the sea
Rusting sheet metal like shades of an orange sunset
Mismatched gloves like an odd left shoe
A chainsaw like a murder mystery
Cans of paint, dripping like sweet honey from the corners of your mouth
Alphabetically organized, pen labeled drawers like an Indian spice cabinet
Masks like the burden of fear
Stacked buckets like procrastination
Rusting chain like forgotten promises
A Drill like the hole left in your heart
Blueprints of a sculpture, like your baby´s first steps
Stone walls like a fairytale
Cement floors like a Decemeber ice sckating rink
Hilos, sargentos, colas, alicantes, tornillos, llaves, alambres, gomas, brocas, martillos, discos, rodillos, espatulas, pinceles
A book of poems
A photo of you and your dog
Music like a beating heart
Life like seasons
And love like the story of two people who fell for eachother, the mountains, the son they created and the art of it all.

Generation Mp3

OK, so we've all heard it before: those of us who are Mp3 collectors, with library's of tens of thousands, don't really appreciate music. How can we when 60% of the quality is missing, (so i've heard, over and over) how can our (unrefined) ears really hear the umph behind that booming system? Because, 'it takes more than a boomin' system, to make me flip and listen,'* says the pushing-40, hip hop connoisseur. On one hand I'm bitter when I show up to a party with my I-pod in hand and I get grief about 'the old days.'So many hip-hop heads are complaining about the new wave of digital DJing, with echoing nostalgia for the times when DJing entailed a back-breaking effort, schlepping crates of records from house to car to bar and back. Much like the folks sitting near the 'beat konducting'** of DJ Emskee at Black Betty in BK; so graceful were the transitions from song to song. And I agree, having been approached for a reggae gig four days before the party, with the most superficial knowledge or reggae music, given the right anmount of time (three days?) I downloaded enough songs to throw a 'jammin' party, with a little help from my friends- torrent and traktor DJ. On the other hand, (the hand that holds my I-pod nano,) is my 1985 birthmark. The years I came to know music, CD's were on the rise and crate digging was a hobby of the past. Before I knew it, I was using words like 'Mp3' and 'digital import' before I could tell you what that even meant. The next minute, records were a thing of the past, and only in the past two years has reintroduced itself, to me, that is. Putting blame aside, I think we can all agree that the music medium most accessible in your coming-of-age years, is what you are most likely to use/seek/rely on if you are not consciously seeking a medium of the past. So enough with the attitude, Mr. my ten-year collection-takes all. Yes, you have walls shelved with vinyl, enough to throw a party 'like it's 1999'.*** But give the youngsters some time. We need those ten years to collect, to make pilgrimages to cities in search of that 'perfect drum lit, cuz that's how it is when you're into this shit.'****
Maybe we can learn from one another? Replace this 'rap battle' with a mutual, inter-generational communication. After all, isn't that what true hip hop is about? Working with what we have, sharing new technology with old wisdom? All we 'need is one mic.'***** Let's learn from our roots and 'come together, right now, over me.'

* Ultra Magnetic MC's
** Reference to Madlib's "Beat Konducta"Series
***Prince
****Madlib on Quasimoto's 'Raw Addict Pt. 2.'
**** Nas

life is like a series of chance encounters. depending on how willing you are to stray the beaten path. to beat your own and not analyze your footprints too intensely.
it is french toast on a snowy morning.

we walked around new york, visiting old places that looked so boring a second time around.
they were fun those nights that started off just you and I, and ended up with half a dozen more, on a rooftop apartment, sunrise over manhattan, the stuff woody allen is made of. that manhattan charm. only in his movies its only two people, a beautiful woman and a funny looking man. i imagine those women were on coke and speed. their doctors prescribed the speed and their friends- the coke. i'll drink another beer. those moments conjure blank thoughts- do we split up? you're already sitting on his lap, maybe he'll take you to his Astoria apartment and i'll go with his friend. no. we take the bus back instead. barely concious of the long trek ahead. the daylight feels like a gentle hug and we manage our way uptown. 179th and broadway. buyers and sellers of the night hang around the station for the straggling B and T crowd, we are so grudgingly referred as. but we ignore them and think about the entourage of accents with whom we talked, danced, drank, smoked, fell on the floor in a youthful attempt to be stacked upon one another, laughing all the while...
my new york.

theory

i have a theory about you
your ears are the window to your soul
you used to get ear infections, two, three a month
until they diagnosed the problem right
i have a theory about you
your heart is the palpitating melody
harmonizing with itself
melodious and high above this ground

my baby sister

remember how you used to stick your belly out?
Just tsanding around
Like a balloon i watch you expand and contract
you breathe loundly, little one.
remember that time i came to visit you in your first apartment?
the first night you spent over the toilet
a bad falafel
and i take you to the clinic
where they don't speak english
and fight for you in a foreign tongue
didn't do you much good so we went to the hospital
more fighting, this time i fight my own tears
as the IV is stuck in your arm
remember this morning?
you wrote me a text message
told me you were on your way to the ER
i told you that you better tell me the next time you were sick
because the last time was my big gig and you hid it
so i wouldn't worry
but this time you tell me promptly
and i want to speak to the doctors
tell them that this is my baby sister they're treating
i want to hold your hand
it would be cold
long nails, painted a deep red i imagine

Tribute to Andre 3000

Thank you for letting me study you closely
For allowing me to follow your lovely logic
As you lustfully twist your words
Into tantalizing metaphor
And you help me to describe a night
When my tanqueray tunneled vision
Has got me on a one way mission
To convert my sober mind
With every splash of tonic
And it's ironic
That I really am seeing circles like some Audi,
Yet in all the confusion
I'm still the queen of this court
So play your part
Cuz these girls are smart,
These girls are smart.
Cue to Continue conducting imitated interaction
And in Andre Fashion
I'll walk it out the door
With failed attempts at reason with mild-mannered men
So in my mind i flirt with treason as I look too long at the female friend
Cuz these men will use all three wishes
Just for some kisses
Just for a five-fingered, manicured hand
Digging deep into their backs
In the backseat of a 2009 make and model
But in the words of 3000,
I could give a dam 'bout your car
But then I would be
If it was considered a classic
Before the drastic change in production
When cars were meal,
Instead of plastic

Genesis

A seven Day reality
The Genesis of my five fingered bible
The new, newer old Testament
Testament to my self-titled irony
the embryonic start of me
Is just the beginning of a Week'

Of every week I feel weak
In my knees and kneel down to pray.
In theory, because I fear Thee
In reality, I just freak myself out.

Day One:
It's hard to dissect the core of me
When seeds and flesh fall somewhere behind me
Leaving pieces one by one and two by two
And Yea, I built the ark-
With the hole on the bottom
So one by one and two by two
I drowned.
Drowned but rescued as I shine my light
And I will let there be light:
Day One.

Day Two:
Cameras roll and I'm frozen in place
trying to believe in a human race
That gives me more than these things I use
Man's gift of substance abuse
Yea, it's my choice, so I accept the gift
and When these mics are muted I can't speak my piece
So I'll forever hold my piece
Until an angel came down from heaven to batlle this beast
and whispers to me
"Spaek up my child, the angels are here my dear"
Let there be heaven:
Day Two

Day Three:
Gets harder to remember the First tImes
The First time I took a bus to school,
Too cool to cry
So a Waterproof mask I'll paint,
Fits like a glove to my face
Wear it like my own skin
Until the day I find it shattered into Six Million pieces of ashed ancestry
Picking up the pieces as my salt water sea runs behind me.
Day Three.

Day Four:
With three days passed
I'm left unprotected, unarmed
For the night you said goodbye
And did this heart much harm.
A stinging prick pumps his drug directly through my veins
And his exit wound burns deeper than his grand entry.
Overdose on love and you leave me in withdrawal
I'm ageless and only able to crawl
Followng the horizon with my eyes on
You.
But instead of you I was greeted by the sun,
Two greater stars lit up my night sky:
Day Four.

Day Five:
The day I'm left to listen to my own absence
And I'd rather drink a bottle of Absinthe
Then watch the world forget me.
So instead I fly on the wings of an angel,
Wishing it were a dove.
But jealosy is a dangerous love,
Because the same music that soothes us,
Also makes us cry.
My tears fro him, yours for me.
Birds of a feather, unrecognizable to one another.
Day Five.

Day six:
The day I welcomed the rules and brake them
Before the night fell upon my guilt ridden soul
An yea, I broke that cardinal rule more than once
Every time I neglect
To check
If the dead animal on my plate was killed proper-ly
Kosher-ly.
Day Six.

Day Seven:
I'm resting in revered mimicry.
Sleeping under the bright lights of my computer screen
Only wishing for a happy dream.
Guess I'm too late
When I wake
From a sleepeless night
And it's begun again, Day One.

I don't want to leave DC!

but if you ask my friends about the garden of eden...
they'll tell you a story
of two people
the way love should be
but what if things weren't the right way
and there were three
or even more
like five or four?
how would the world divide our love
when i love him and you love me and he loves her and she loves you
it would be a shame to wash upon the shores of eden
not knowing what to expect, as if your mind had gone and beaten
you to the border
and you order
one love
but get two with you meal
and honestly you do feel
for both
and the world didn't like the new divisions
blurry in their visions
no one knew who to belong to
and where to rest their weary minds
in these tribulating times
nostalgia calls and wants the time back
there were two
made of one body, the bones of a feather flock together
and three's company and a crowd
this party of three gets al too loud
for the truth seeking realities
of just two celestial bodies
two stars shine bright
and three clouds the black night
and when we're lying in bed its too bright
so ill ask him to turn off the light and he'll ask her to ask me to keep it on.
the bottom line of this song
is my plea for my pair
two pieces of a puzzle that fit only with each other
and love only one another.

I dreamt you got a buzz cut
then crawled into my bed
wrapped your arm around me
and i rested on your head
i tasted your skin with mere anticipation
we never got to kiss
and in real life
i'll miss that dream
but even more our unrequited kiss.

Listening to a new kind of music
The kind that makes me feel different
A little stranger than the day before
Fighting the mundane
Is giving me a migraine
And i'm grinding
My teeth at night
The new music is giving me a fright
And i just might
Stick my velcro pieces together
And go back to the day before
I felt Strange

Its hard to remember the first day of the creation
When all of my “firsts” transpired prior to the unscripted start
Of me.
A bit easier to remember that start.
A night tattooed in my senses
When my “priors” were crimes against all things innocent.
This start of me
might be
a night back in 2004
two decades post day 1
With a fresh id, wrong name, right birthdate
Born a year too late in 2004
a street corner on the lower east side
Christie and Delancey.
Street Names with friendlier dispositions
Than the friends who by that time were testing inappropriate positions
Entangled in Men with names like Johnnie walker and Jamison
Black label never did much for me
Were walking fast by now,
Until we pass Five men on that east side corner and I stop
Ten hands on flipped tin garbage
Hit, struck by the mood
Beats and rhythm call me in,
Call me name
As they call to me
Asking for a line
A rhyme
And im shy
them a few
and know this is the beginnig of a great fiendship
On this night of the Start of me.

December 26th 1985

On the west side highway
Driving home
first night of life and all its stimulations
tired and confused at age 24 hours
in the backseat in the family’s blue, 1984 Volkswagen
one year my senior, it knows how to rock me to sleep
humming a lullaby with its engine, rocking
I fight heavy, fluttering eyelids all the way across the George Washington’s Bridge
Carrying me to all my firsts I come to know in 23 years.

how do i

how do i capture a thought
on a bus
in the shower
how do i tame the urge to take a drastic measure
when i'm nervous
when i'm looking at a picture of a girl who's more successful, alot skinnier
like that means something
how do i make it not mean something
but it does for some reason
how do i measure happiness
they tried to, in the 50's
and out of it made a perfume commercial
about love
about two people in black and white riding a horse
a flowing dress and a six pack
how do i forget that
when i want you
you back away
a pendulum on which we forever swing on opposite sides

the other night a close girlfriend of mine claimed that part of the reason for some perpetuating ways of this man's world we live in comes from the 'innate' differneces in how women overcome obstacles or reach a goal. She went on to say that when a woman has a goal in mind it is often more difficult to reach this goal than let's say, her male counterpart, because she is multitasking even in her mental thought processes in scoping the future terrain/course of action. For example, in my case, getting a job after college might be clouded with worries and thoughts about juggling other responsibilities of mine instead of being 100% focused on the major goal ahead. Not to imply that men aren't capable of mulit-thinking/tasking... Actually, I wasn't implying a thing, since this wasn't my theory to begin with...
Just a thought.
A thought that came back to me as I hear creaking floorboards above me, my (female) roommate tiptoes above, in the wee hours.At least I'm not alone. There's three of us under this roof. I'm here, 'in bed' with a screen shining bright, instead of perhaps the shining stars that are gleaming through my (male) roommates silent bedroom.

in my last two weeks in dc
ive been calling everyone i know
just to request a face to face
maybe an hour of talking...
sometimes im afraid that i talk only for my own sake, for gaining some kind of validation
because im scared mostly, of my bold decisions
not that im all that bold
it's relative really.
i can call myself a coward but then the part of me that doesn't believe that is called to the front of my brain to defend the rest of me, and here i am, perpetuating the stamp of approval to which i've grown addicted...
i was talking to miriam, a friend of a friend
and i was telling her that i don't know exactly why im going to spain
she asked me to hold the line while she searched for a quote she recently came across that fit my situation-
something like 'something calls you, a creative request for your presence, and you follow it, blindly perhaps. and a while later you can appreciate your decision, but only a longer while after that can you really understand why you were pulled in that direction to begin with.' and that's true for so many things.

i love it
hate
it
and i can't stop scratching
and it won't stop itching
nails dig deeper
and it's ruining me
will ruin me
will rain on me
won't you rain on me?
me. camouflaged under this red bulb,
blend with red patches
of allergy
an allergic reaction to bad habits.
after a good day?
i spit in my own face.

sleeping with you, bright light
screen of plenty
i feel empty
though.
i'll watch a movie,
re-run-
and think how
we ran
in different directions
now, stagnant
this night, i know you
wide eyed in non-waking hours
red venom crawls under my skin
and i lay
white as an apple's flesh
i pray this night finally bites
pierce the skin
or i'll peel it off myself

apology

to the one who's shadow i traced,
across the horizon
as the sun
your silhouette chased:
forgive me.

to the one who gave the cues,
at dinner.
and with the little one you glued
us together.
when family suddenly meant 3+1+1,
instead of the whole number we thought as ours.

to the one who's arm caressed my back
and collected the tears
when at thriteen i thought i wouldnt stop
crying.

to the one who's laugh
is wholehearted and
to the one whose heart is whole

thank you for being my oder sister.

i've bled.
i cut open and left a trail of blood for you
to follow
but you got lost
in a corner office

a song plays on repeat
so you can't recognize the beginning from the end
and you got lost

and woke
two years later
listening to that same note.

i smell like baby's skin
for some reason

for some reason
someone shed their scent

and now i'm made of particles of others
in this body

its been three months since weve spoken and i thught maybe his feeling would have subsided by now
but no. im listening to lauren hill 'nothing even matters' on repeat. crying in the dark like i used to,
once they were tears in your arms.
but its been so long
maybe im just still in love with the idea of you, who's to say that i even know you anymore.
that i would even recognize you.
but i dont believe that. at all.
i want to cry enough tears to make a river straight to mexico. i would build a rafter and float to you.
'cuz nothing even matters...
im afraid that im going to be running until im back in your arms.

Looking down onto a green cloth
Of Spring moth and dirt
(I wonder, are your eyes are even open?)
Shifting confusion
Opposite our simple, detangled spool of kisses.
I won't request your presence for now,
I will dream you up
As you
Heal me
And Spin me around
In my white summer dress.

The sweet taste of a rare memory-
Descend upon me!
Heal me
Because recently
Hospital beds have been my inspiration.
Sanitized hands shine under flourescents
Lighten-Ing microscopic flaws
(How I wish for a G-d-sent strike of light,
A real charge of electricity,
Atmospheric reminder of my mortality)
But as I face my immortal fate,
Naked under this recycled hospital gown,
Helpless against the white coats and wheelchairs.
I
Fall
Into one
Before I fall for your words
Or into them.
Im crippled when I'm with you
I'm numb when I'm without
You,
Disguised in your readied speech.
Heal Me
Like you did the night we met
Our frozen moment-
Fossilized desire for you
My fire for you
Our raw, rare flame
Red like the steak
I cooked for you
Or the one
I placed
On my blacks and blues
Reveal your healing hands
Because I can't trust your eyes
As they've lied
Again.

Tempted by the fall
We stand tall
Or try.
In reality we are
Listening
Limping
Towards tops of imprinted impressions...
Infallible storytelling are the forgotten fossil,
Layers of sediment
Preserved remains of useless lessons learned
Hints to a life lived.

Nostalgia

I liked the silver forks better
When they were out of their drawers
Beautiful in their disarray

Now,
Mummified in their blue plastic coat,
They feel constricted.

Why
Must you Organize?
Distinguish between prongs?
And dips?
And Blades?

Raw and Rare

Raw and Rare

Nothing is as it was
As it is
As it should be.
Strange as an ice-capped horizon with
Pastel pinks and yellows forming a descending arch
Vanilla beans sprinkle
As powdered sugar dusts over
The Mountain top.
The top of this mountain rests
Above buried, unheard sound
Veiled and untouched
Cones of frozen earth
Stand weary of the ice
Inviting our knight and shining Gravity
Down.

Ode to Obama

Carrying me with swift moments
Into the movement
Of the new.
Fresh faces, like covergirls
I'm in awe like you are the 8th wonder
Of the thundering parade.
Tshirts with your face,
This city is laced with your spirit and your voice
In all the noise
Yours is softest
And closest to my ear.

Inverted Moon

A Full moon floats between black music,
Scripted stars.
Nodding synchronously,
Rotating heavy eyelashes.
Imagined dark seas of black liquid life.
But that was long ago,
In a time when the world was fantastically bigger,
A time when imagination and science competed for a crowned truth and imagination won.
A time when the dark pools of lethal basaltic lava were thought to be inviting pools of water.
Today we know better, we know smaller, we know science-
I know that the same moon dances on this earth, inside of her,
With the synchronized movement of her breath,
Between her stomach and the lining of her belly,
Bypassing the hollow inversion
Where her uterus once lived healthily
And happily willing to expand its walls and house new life.
Fear of abandonment,
Of further hollowing of her insides,
She moves further into herself.
Cradling empty space,
Rocking the notion of a grand finale,
A shooting star in her black night.

Twilight

Twilight

Like a drug, i open my veins and invite you in.
We can know each other,
Get high on one another,
But when you start to fade,
To change colors-
Yellows to red to a darker shade of blue,
I travel the untraveled, transient winds
To find.
To lose.
Last night I found fears I never knew I had
I dreamt the cells in my body were multiplying by the millions.
That same day,
Alkylating, anti-neoplastic agents were pumping through the veins i opened up for you,
and the ones before you.
And i was left helpless
in my hospital bed
knowing that
My weakness-
was a product of selfish blindness
of the choice I made between
gold and coal.
i watched my hand reach out to all things that glittered.
but as the saying goes...
your golden entrance, upstaged you silver-plated exit!
And if I could reach out and touch you, feel you in the flesh
I would choose the fantasy.
The over-the-moon,
man-on-the-moon fantasy that rears it's head during twilight.
Those fleeting moments
Between day and night
that slip through my hands
like quicksand.
I do what I please in those moments.
Consequences fall to the gutter as they themselves question their place in this 24 hour, bookended experience.
Products of day or night?
I ask myself the same,
Fearless in the face of misguided deed.