time's leading the way in which i thought it might
icy floes of knife-sharp minutes glittering dark
against the white blur of the rest.
i see them, touched by mind's eyes
they do not move.
things i wanted, wished on, could not describe
and things i'll never know.
they seem to flow fastest at night, alone
laid out on my floor
diagrams of memory
i see it all for splinters of instants, catching what i can carry
in my sieve of a heart
fracturing the more glacial moments
into photographs
the suggestions of a movement
notes of music and voice
restructured into perfect synchronized choreographies
and only once it is pieced together in the language i believe
may i sleep.

things look more beautiful in faith.
mine is not religious in the sense of wanting a church
a preacher
a cross
or a star
my religion is knowledge, the thing which i worship
is not a god, but a love discriminate and specific
and all-well.
my faith is underscored by music, by the words of Albert and Paolo and Ayn,
by a peace of heart,
and a pride in life.
And in breathing with this pride without arrogance
is defense, as all weapons raised against me
will fail
as faith is the heartbeat of a crowd of kids at a parking lot stage,
the pulse of soundwaves of a voice in my mind,
through invisible wires over atmosphere,
the tremor just before he falls asleep.
and in that,
uninvincible as we are, we retain strength enough to believe enough to build enough
so our handprints may become eternal enough to be touched
infinitely
in coliseums and symphonies,
on canvas and filmstrip.

Everything I see is echoing images of treelines soaring
water slipping over glowing nighttime sand
smells of the ocean in our hair
and your shampoo in my hands
i hear the hummingbirds in my ears at the vibration
of every phone
every buzzing guitar string is a beetle iridescent on my arm
and your thoughts on love and human beings
are threaded through my mind
punctuating things happening now of most minor gravity
in the ghostly face of midnight meditations
and journeys through empty parkways
below skies of ink and glitter

I am a conscious hibernator
in every vision sight scent i feel you
and the places we were
have been
will be again, if all hopes are fated
or if all fates are culminating
in places of you and i
and dark,
 and sand dusted stones on a shore at midnight.

it's all disappeared in the midnight sand
beneath the rise of the moon and the shift of the stars
it's our sole right to say, "we tamed this."
and with the slide of your fingers along the nape of my neck
water singing and spheres humming and skin holding skin
i know that it was not tamed for us, but made for us--
a backdrop of moon to reflect an echo of the sun's light
so it can brighten your shoulders
and hold on to them as you carry us into the sea.

if time lives in perfected ribbons
stamped as though by metal letters
imprinted imbued imparting
this insane rhythm of life
to the things i do not realize i do
as the spans of sitting thinking or moving speaking
blend and smooth into a preclusive transitory bolt
lighter than the air in my nose
then the lapses where it catches on the hooks of the illogic
are the spans when i am laughing
and fighting

Damage happens when something that should be
isn't.
a missed step, an upward fall.
when something once aligned is out of click.
a brake line, a clutched gear, a spinning crash.
Or maybe it's when something that shouldn't be
is.
a rumpled shirt on the floor under step.
a bedsheet flicked out or order in the corner.
another scent wafting through the doorway
a catch of breath in throats, and
feet pound floorboards.

I cannot fathom who or what would cause you to do such a thing
as walk along an empty street with hands full of thirty daisies.
in pools of dirty once-snow and the dust of a thousand feet,
it's written that you'd stop sink to a kneel in the center of the street
in the center of the world
letting little petals drop around your legs sounding like
the hollow pumps of your heart
pounds of your fists
for in little drops of uncondensated dew and unborn rain
it's sung that i'd walk float across bridges and rivers
finding home in every doorway when you will only see hell.

I wrote something!
surprise, surprise.

Slip out past my hands
like so many flickerflakes of ice
I wonder if I could hold on
if i tried
not if i wanted to, because i do
or if i was able to, because i don't know if
but if i tried.
i can still try.
this will mean letting go of past things along the way
losing all of what it is i am before arrival
i will still try.
If it cracks at the heart
(and it will)
if it breaks our will
(it will fail)
and if it rips a million little fissures to cover all i can see of the world
it will only be so for a time.
(and we'll meet on the other end)

There have been a few times when I've felt really peaceful. I remember a few of them happening when I was on a run. Where I live there's this park that ends at the shoreline of a bay, so I sit there and catch my breath for a bit mid-run.
It's total stillness there, and there's very few people who are around the area, so it's amazingly quiet. In the summer I take my shoes off and put my feet in the water. There's these tiny grayish fish that start to float near me after a few minutes. If I stand long enough, they swim right over my feet in little darting movements, resting every so often right on top of my foot. It's such a strange feeling, but mindblowing when I really think into it- how often do average people get to connect with nature like this? It gives me an immense sense of peace and calm, knowing that these tiny creatures trust my presence enough to rest on me.