blue sky saturation to full – the greys come peeling in like mixed-race piano keys, like a fully embodied mirror of the hudson – muddy, murky, mellowing — and here we are, by 5pm the sky has turned mellow in October. by 9am the brisk of the cooling night has only slightly dissipated. and here we are, the time i have with my little one turning timelier and timelier. i’m not okay with the time, apparently. is it not the full flesh of a purpling peach – gathering time at the edges and pointing inwards? will i ever be old enough to love you? will i ever be young enough to know you? and here the pull of music pulls time away from me again, a little tap dance; a little curtain call; a little dream of how we used to be; a little dream that things will start making sense again, the way they always have, though time ticks through them at varying colors and degrees — the way they always have, though time ticks through them endlessly


the time

words come hurtling from the atmosphere all around me, buzzing at my head like little summer wasps…but i have not had the time. i have not had a moment. i have not had the time to sit and set the past few days process through me.  i have not had time to write about jamie’s birthday – the way friendship whistled through the trees in the backyard, giggling and slipping in a puddle of hazy water droplets. i have not had time to write about spring awakening – the dreamlit way the violet and auburn lights pummel into my flesh, pour through me like searchlights. the way the violin and cello curdle my heart into something golden/winged/heated. i have not had time to write about adventures in Delaware, the way a barrage of Andrew Wyeth’s plastered themselves onto my skin, tempura painted into my eyeballs, my cerebrum, the way those paintings made me remember how my soul feels when it is rattling about inside my ribcage. the way Spring Awakening made me remember how my soul feels when it is a pool of purple light expanding in my chest. i have not had time to write about Jamie’s graceful growth – speaking with veracity and a personality that is beginning to braid out of fingers. i have not had time to write about how grateful i am for this new show – new words, new rhythms. i have not had time to write about how it felt to hold my book of poems in my hands. i am grateful for my life, for my words. i am grateful to be busy, i am grateful to wallow in the light. i am grateful for the summer dive, the slinking push into the pool, the sunburned window into friendship, the curled pages of possibility, the hungry piece of the world still aching inside of me. i am grateful that i get to see my grandfather in a few weeks, that we all are strong and fragile at the same time. i am grateful to be with my boy, the strongest light in my heart. i am grateful for Spring Awakening, and the open strummed guitar chord that breaks my heart in two and lets everything inside fly out into the shadows and light. i am grateful for the reverberations of sound through a theatre – the echoes of meaningful words spoken beautifully and with grace. i am grateful for ritual, for the ghost light, for the inspiration of bogad, people that care about beautiful things, and the ability to be a part of making something beautiful. i am grateful for beauty – true beauty – the kind of beauty that breaks your heart open and lets your chest feel the terror and majesty of the open air.

Circumstantial words, or
coal in reverse – carbonizing back to plantlife –
keep it in the ground, it will form a circle.
A circumstance of stances not taken yet;
dances still flirting in dis-repose/
I said – to me, you are the alwaysman,
You said I cannot remember the shape of your hand, or
why you think mine should fit in yours

Heavy metals, though, they need supernovae to form/
We can manage it –
large hadron collider and such,
but the time
it will take
to match gravity
in comparison
to your memory/
My circumstance;
atomic structure;
quizzical destiny looking itself up in the dictionary;
situational comedy;
and circumstance

like two timelines clinking champagne glasses –
a salute to our cellular happenstance
and the fate-magma bubbling inside
(i told you i don’t believe in fate – you said,
but i do)


the wind is waiting to warp you

here was a word I once knew how to own, and here was a body I once knew how to inhabit.

here was a season I once flooded – here is a season I’ve never met. here is a month drenched in climate confidence (change and circumstance, pomp and confusion). here is my child, here is my breath. here is my constantly churning yearning for the knowledge that I am brave enough to articulate what tiny words I know (together, they are a spell/apart, they are a whimsy; a whimper; a wish). here is Meinong’s jungle, here is a hacksaw. here is Aquinas’s’ theory of natural law, here is nature, tapping at my window, asking to come in. here is the new season, tapping on my tongue – asking to come in. asking me to come out, come out – see the splendid seeds brandishing their stalks and stems. come out, come out – pull your skin towards the sun once more. come out, come out, the clocks will tumble too – we’ll all lift our faces towards the sun/tilting/tilting/we’ll all till the land, kill the clock, shake the ice out of our senses. here is the season – come out, come out/the wind is waiting to warp you.

oh come, oh come the world is made of glass and fire-rain. the tumbled pitcher of the sky keeps pouring, the rhythmless fancy of the tide keeps turning, the water turns black-ice and wildfire if given enough time and temperature. the temperature of the world is tilt-graced and tuning in.

the temperature of the world is sticky-goo and mild-mannered; fumble-high and tidal-sigh. the weight of the world of 3.14 tons of triple-twisted tones. the weight of the world, the weight of the world sits with me, has tea, has little crumpet pies. has little trumpet lies, trump-like ties, trumped-up trickle-down economics, Freakonomics, trickle-up the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the spout again. down came the rain and washed the fighter out – wash the fight out of your ears – wash the light out of your eyes – the only thing it does it clog the listening. wash it out, wash it out, trickle it down (the money, the equality, the rhythm of the night still pounding – flesh tipped and turnip-ed, turned up nose and those that just turned up), pay it forward, pay it back. pay it back, you banking fool, pay it back, you tight rope Carnegie. Pay it back, the world still weighs it down. Pay it back, the world still weighs with waiting. The world still waits to be weighed. To be wooed. To be cooled. Down. Double down, on it, will you? You’ll get your investment back in Time.