Observation 1

Observation:
A homeless man sleeps
In an abandoned parking lot
Curled up like a child
On a pile of mattress
His skin dappled by sunlight
As dozens of cars pass

I miss him

I might admit to a feeling of uneasiness
If I was still capable of such things
If I could scrape free the blind from my eyes
Or raise the veil that clouds my thoughts
 
I miss him
 
His body is the cup my feelings spill into
Yet each drop sinks
into a spiraling void
Endless and irrevocable
Twinkling like stars in the darkness
Until burning out
 
There is a flicker
Like a flame on the tip of my tongue
That I could fall bodily into that
My entire self consumed inside of him
Burned alive or fading out
Emptied of context
 
But he is a winch that pulls me back
 
I want to wind my fingers through his hair
the way I want to twist myself
into the patterns of his thoughts
Make a space for myself against his heartbeat
 
Imperfect
 
And now it's past midnight
But I'm dreaming awake
The miles between us
Begin to feel like my intestines unraveling
And I know I should sleep
But I'm going to him
Into the sickly night air
That dampens my shirt and thickens my breath
 
I feel like I'm underwater
 
I hear a buzzing
Like a blown out speaker
Twisting and chittering in the stillness
Above the droning cicadas
A dragonfly beats himself
Against the plastic dome
on the light above the stairwell
As if his body were tethered to it
Failing to break free of it's gravity
 
And from where I stand
I can see the floors above me
The lights for each floor
And dragonflies
Beating their dissonance
In a chorus like electric currents
 
I trace my eyes upward
Light to light
Until they disappear from view
Lost into inky sky
And a feeling climbs up the back of my throat
 
A second spanning countless moments passes
And I swallow my held breath
And continue to my car
 
He's waiting for me
Out there in the empty hollows
 
And it's time for me to return


(Written in 2013, maybe?)

I want to write a poem

I want to write a poem
          about
the sweet
      softness
that was waking this morning
    The sun drifting in
                                                                                    
                                             a gentle kiss
I could wear on my skin all day
    like sweet
perfume
                               a lover's lingering salutations
                                             my heart light
A morning with eggs 
    and toast
          and hot coffee

                so sweet

                                The mug warming my fingers
                                      both nostalgic 
                              and constant

I feel my strings
    vibrate 
their rising chorus
               a body so strong
               so capable
               resilient and
                                                                                                    
                                                       unfaltering 

And I could think
         how sweet
all of
this is.

I want to write it

I want to write it
I want to write it
I want to write it
I want to write it
I want to write it

Typewriter

The man on the corner of Market and Castro
Had hauled his typewriter into the cold summer
I paid him a few dollars for his work
-Would have paid more if I'd had it 
And watched fingers perform practiced dances
Invoking clicks and scraping whispers
As something spilled from those metal insides
I can't recall his face now
Never knew his name
Even lost the thin paper that he'd handed me 
Have forgotten every word that stained it
-Gloss black and the smell of ink and sun
That thing that was for me and me alone
I yearn for it sometimes
The words I lost or the summer I left
Memory and poetry fading to white
-Was it the snow, the moon, a hollowed face? 
I carry with me broken shells and cicada husks
But remember how it felt to hear their sounds

Still

I went outside today
It looks the same

Still

It blends like watercolors
The sky into the grass
Foggy and gray, thin and pale
My words hang white like ghosts

My thoughts have left lines in the rug
While I've waited for the snow
To bury all the places I've been
And turn them paper white

Still

Tarot

I don't believe in the tarot

But if I did I would say
That my father
Saw his death in those cards
And that my mother
Sees the future in flames

But I do believe in a card

Seventeen

Not for how
It fits in the hand
Nor for a love
Of occult mysticism
Or the wish
Of a more magical reality

Though

I do wish

And I pine for the loss
Of something that feels
Like a more magical
Reality

But I do believe

In what it means

In the reason so many
White girls get it marked
Into the skin of their hands
Their necks
Behind their ears
Next to the dreamcatchers
Mobius symbols
And flying birds

But I am not them
I cannot fill my body
With stars

But I do wish

I could swallow them down
Breathe them in like light

If I only had the will

I don't believe in promises

There's no destiny
That plays out like a movie
A book that you can open
And peek into the chapters ahead
To make sure your favorite character
Is still there
Still has words
Left to be written

But I believe in the stars

A map that reminds you
That you're a part of everything

A compass that tells you
There's more out there than dark

But only

If you keep going

The only things
That the stars hand deliver
Feel like a burning inside you
And never seem
As beautiful as they were
When they were viewed so far away

They say
You'll have the light I gave you
But you have to find
Your own way

I believe in
Finding your home again
In finding yourself again

I believe in a path
That walks your feet forward

I believe in a light
Where the winding cavern ends
That holds all the potential
That anyone ever has

I believe in a hope
That says
There's still a chance

Things can still change

(written 10/29/20)

Untitled (Summer Song)

It's not every time
But sometimes
I'll hear that song play
And my heart will ache
 
In the gnawing way
That branches grind in heavy wind
Like tectonic plates and ice flows
 
In the fluttering way
A mouse's heart beats
When it's curled around its dreaming
 
I'll think of a person
That only exists in memories
 
The wet heat of summer
And the sun in their hair
Already beginning to fray
At the loose ends