It has been a while since I visited this space
this phrase
this taste
that lingers on my hands that use it all
the invisible
the unlivable
that takes bites at my heart and the left ear
prickly pear
morning prayer
I mutter and scream regardless of life
who dies
advise
please advise on the nature of joy
of Troy
of God:
am I you or you I in this quest we call birth
we observe
and prefer
we emerge
and reverse
we occur
and we flirt
with the time that revolves in the quietest of rooms
don’t you wait! fill your womb
with the now and the myths
don’t you wait now! fill it with…
Tag Archives: identity
pinocchio
they are the rocks
that the quarry never answered
(waitingforajoke)
or the big bang
they are the dreams
taking over my matter while you found
the dungeon
I keep them all in
it is the whale swallowing the wooden kid
δε∀†h θþξη ƒσΓ discussion
I taste
of things that have no illusions
of existing
infinite lights
of cats and breath
of the past that holds on to tissue in
illnesses
of heat yes! heat that
comes from the center of somewhere or
existed all along it
was only waiting for June
of fabrications in my head
that laughter gives a w a y
of teeth nibbling on cheese
of fish once a week
of loving of harsh
words words
of waiting for the next one yes
the next one
the next one
the next
and not waiting at all
of Spanish words that Saturn can hear
of the dance where I am led where I lead
of my mother’s birth
of my father’s death
of a few countries and their cathedrals
of the pain of others and
their wrinkles revering the sun
of rainbows and darkness
of dust and chemicals
of seemingly filtered water
and piano songs floating away on rafts
made up of tears and overthinking
of prehistoric cells ready for goodbyes and
new ones too that want to abandon this (human)
ship and create elsewhere
of love un(conditional)
you
I wonder what your tongue claims …
medusa factor
Don’t ask me where I’m from
just touch my hair
It feels like it could turn you
into rock and algae
even after avocado treatments
I have lent my hair
to hairbrushes and tubs that
clog
pillows and floors
dishes and food
to future scenes of crime where
I existed years ago
It comes from far away places
and its roots are dry as the desert
making it almost impossible to grow
like hers or hers or even yours
and yet
it soothes me and loves me
and handles mistreatment
it wraps and tickles
and caresses your face
and sometimes my shoulders
hairballs!
about a tree
Sprouted I did !
I heard that I was needed some where
and decided to walk there
only to find myself firmly rooted
to a girl with branches
in a land of dust and questions
where silence is the last desire
and the first at times
when there is nothing else but the
wait for that ray of sunshine that
will bring hope to the girl’s eyes
the one with the branches
and the dust
and the questions
rain
alleged importance
Is it real?
Does it label me?
Make me better? or best!
Does it give me a certain energy
of attraction or r e p u l s i o n?
Was it meant for me the very first day
I inhabited this
human shell?
Was it written on some star before
I landed HERE?
Was it a coincidence that my mother
Heard it from a friend?
What do you feel when the sound of my name
leaves your lips r i d i n g an exhale?
Does it make them tingle
in hope of sensual outcomes?
Do you have an expectation of response?
Does it fit me when I wake in the morning?
Sometimes I feel it loose around my field
like it wants to leave so I can become someone
else
So I let it take off while I become shortened versions of it
or nicknames or a whistle or a sigh..
But all the while…
It’s you
who pronounces my name often…
you
so be honest and
say it
The Naked Pianist 