baboom baboom

I can hear the music shake

And I convert the energy in my legs into 

Shifty hips that sway with the beat. 

Carefree in appearance

I

Listen for the stranger's voice. So many surround me and most of them slurred

But I feel I will know the one that is his

When he says "hello, oh it's you."

Waiting

I

Almost forget why I am here

And you are not. 

Waiting I imagine all the ways our first conversation will go. 

This voice never comes but instead a summons

Not in so many words but in the between the lines that asks "will you go first instead?" Maybe covering for the "you don't look like your picture online so I don't really want you to be you" or "I can't leave my friends" or "this is harder than I thought, strangers meeting."  

So I take the breath in necessary to swallow the fear and the pride and all my lovely dreams of how it would go, and make the first move instead. 

Out of my space and into yours. 

After I arrive home and the tape starts replaying in my head, my internal mantra. 

"Why was I so weird? I acted stupid, like I didn't have any conversation starters. Like there was nothing I wanted to know about him, except everything! His friends watching us made me nervous and they were prettier than me or at least skinnier and he probably regrets obliging and asking me to ice cream tomorrow after all but had to do it so he wouldn't seem like a jerk. Well, maybe he actually wants to go... No, duh. He's in way better shape than you and has all the options in the world!  Why would he want to be with you?  

Also, he is cooler.  More of a risk taker.

Shit. 

Well I basically decide I wanna do things and then just MAKE THEM HAPPEN all the time, so what am I, chopped liver?! STOP.  You are not gonna do this.  I'm effing tired of this routine.  Stop the campaign slogans and the junk putting you in a separate camp from the people you want to be with. Classes are for learning, not for cutting up dreams."

And so I do. Because I am really tired of the tape and it's getting worn out anyway. If I pull it just a little more, it will break forever and I can't listen to it again. 

I empty my head. Fill my lungs with air. And take the step I need to be the first version of myself to make the move towards what I want. 

Peace. 

Disintegrating.

The more I hold on the more I am forced to

Let go. 

As the plans I have constructed fall away and in their place

Grains of sand

A dream once made of rock

Washed down into nearly nothing. 

And you would think that would be depressing. 

And it is. 

But the beauty in all those tiny moments holds my attention

More so than what I wanted. 

Not to replace but to be part

The sand in my hands and the rock I once thought I knew are one and the same. 

What I want is to be known. 

I have so many gifts and supports. 

Who am I to call it less than or not as whole? 

They are broken just like me. 

And all those dreams of 

Sand

Like the time 

Slipping through my fingers. 

Broken down, but so beautiful. 

Words I have

But the words I have fall flowery and short

Which is the way I like it. 

An offensive play to keep others guessing

Where I am and where I will go. 

I look around and see the books of words circling and deep

And I do the unthinkable:

Compare. 

I am not a writer, I say, because I don't write like they do. 

I write things I would say

Or

Thoughts to help me think

A trail of breadcrumbs from my head

To my heart. 

I don't write like the poets so I'm simply not one. 

My voice is enough to make me poet, my beating heart and strong legs and 

loud laugh at all the unpredictable punches of life, 

the ferocity of love in me for the brevity of experience and 

wide 

open 

arms and 

breathing it all IN. 

I live, therefore I prose. 

Yes, to all of that. 

night

alive chatter

jumping over one another's sentences

flowing around the circle

igniting a new flame 

thought

question

experience 

piece of life. 

we gather because we want to

we came because we care

invest in others

invest inside. 

in no particular order we check in with the other

ask deeply and often

"how ARE you?"

and friends tell

because we want to be known

that the pain will be less

and the heart will be more

if we do so. 

risk. enjoy. step in. 

these friends bring lightning with the rain. 

my favorite.

morning

lilting and tilting mayhem into the fabric

weave 

to the beat and show us a smile

we all know you have hidden. 

need to feel all right again

you can do it little one.

drive by the place you've always wanted to visit

but never have good enough

reason.

hoping that one day 

someone 

will agree to experience the beauty 

with you

and think maybe soon you should just go in

by yourself. 

better late than not at all 

console

alone is not empty

the beauty inside probably greater than you can imagine. 

say all the things

without using words

to display

and look in the hidden corners for

flowers

of life. 

the balm of the march of january

sometimes the cold is within

the fold

of the innermost corner of belief. 

a word filled with bright hope, but in

these days

the meaning holds more of a 

dark secret. 

matter of time, until everyone else believes this secret with me; alone. 

sometimes the warmth comes from a friend. 

kind words reminding you the gold can be held at all times, and isn't just for dress up. 

sometimes the word comes from 

yourself, before. 

when you didn't know this, but did know where you had been already. and that path was

heavy

rutted with 

loneliness. 

from lack of exposure

and now you have the other kind

rutted with 

experience

to show you a different empty. 

but those molds needent cling to the present

the gift that you are to yourself. those ruts can be left behind

as a part of the road

you

are

traveling

.

continuous, dear heart. keep hope. keep love. keep eyes to the sky and ear to the birds for their songs 

call to the corner of your lips without fail.

learning: the practice of life. 

now. 

the war wages on.

twinkle

all the lights
some steady, powered by a current i cannot own
although i pay for it
but to whom, most definitely not the rightful owner.
some flicker, with a grace captivating
like no other. simply to be in it's presence causes one to feel
more whole.


and i wonder, if it is like this simply for lights
what else in life follows suit?
that the electric, the fancy, the invented new and bright and always on
are never as comforting as those
which have been in our generations for generations
created by those who knew the power of it's warmth;
harnessed it in portable form.
that these things, the most genuine and bare versions
are always the most connected.


as the light brings warmth to the darkness
so love brings
stark ourselves.

twinkle on, enraptured.