Xanadu
 

Held hands with a new boy last night. We walked over graves and his hands were cold. “Cold hands, warm heart”, my father used to say— and better that than cold feet. I have an infatuation with the intimacy of the hands. Our first instinct as infants is to grab— to cling to our mothers— to cling to each other. I have an obsession with hand-knit gloves and mittens— bare nails and manicures. Clammy palms and nervous nail biting. Shadow puppets and paper cuts— knuckle cracking, p

They were in the hospital Just the man and the speech pathologist. She scooping applesauce into his mouth, And he just hoping he’ll be able to swallow Without aspirating. The man is gripping the sheets on his bed, And all he is thinking is— What a simple pleasure it is to eat? And again, she tells him to open wide, And the man is praying, And the Speech Pathologist is too Because he is only 43. 43 is kids and a wife. It’s school nights and holidays. It’s baseball games and va

Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime But through your eyes people in need are just clutter littering the pristine ground of your mind Soiling the fresh taste of independence inconveniencing america's royals Give the man some sustenance, I say. Two fish for him, perhaps. Two fish to survive and thrive and have the ability to fish Nourish him because he is human, Then, fill him with skills that will aid him later. But

as i wait for you as the hallways clear and i sit and stare on this wooden bench— i feel like sleep. a gap— a space between what is— and what is yet to be. as i watch for the comings and goings of my peers. and i’m looking at the wall in front of me that’s painted with a quote from the poet who was born here— about what he believes in the blades of grass and the grains of sand which he treads and he breathes and he thinks they’re divine but there’s nothing good here. if he kn

Ash carries a prayer Willed by charred fabric From the match that marches Trying to weave—trying to help create. But its flame brings its Work to ash.

When I need it most, I recite with joy and confidence. When you speak, I hear healing. Like an alarm clock going off— triggering scenes embedded into my brain so, I naturally say aloud, with assurance and spirit. Not wondering if you can recall what I refer to because I say these lines for myself, immersed into a bubble where only I exist. A dance between reality and escape. A song between sentiment and chatter. And the reaction received— perplexed, deep stares, fazed faces.

Getting you out of my head is like playing a guitar without strings. It’s absolutely impossible. Every fret along the fingerboard is a different memory spent with you. Playing on repeat in my head, just strumming a rhythm. The unwritten songs of us, made up by chord progressions of our times spent together. Using a capo to pin down a fret, cherishing every moment with you. It reminds me of the song you asked me to learn at midnight to cheer you up. Hitting a perfect note to s

Gentle lanterns luminated softly through a silent town. Needing no more than the radiant moon to guide them. The journey through the smooth sloped mountains— leading into the sheet of cotton. Passing through the pillowy clouds— you stand in space. This mountain— cursed with twists and turns. Taking your breath away as you dance with the stars. Her children radiate the path— embedded with footprints. Them taking you to their goddess mother— she calls for you. The goddess— a be

Boxes scattered around her feet. Ballet flats for the delicate pushover, kitten heels for the judgemental prude, stilettos for the irresponsible whore. The Cordwainer shapes each identity, stealing her individuality. Confining her into the sole— of who he believes she should be. They follow her wherever she may go creating footprints just as she begins her stride. Once shiny leather made dull. Until she decides to change; not herself, but her label. Taking back who she is. Hi

We tread lightly, cautiously Listening to the myths and tales Of heroes and foes, monsters and gods. Silk weaves into art whilst Ego breeds eight legged arachnids. Narcissists melt away, While foolish girls are swallowed by the earth, And spend their winters licking the pomegranate juices Off their nimble fingers. Life’s cheaters are to spend eternity, Shoving their soaked sides against boulders, Cheeks puffed, gasps escaping clenched teeth. Only to watch the stone plunge bac