so much to work for, you and i:
and when the fable is written,
and projected against the sky,
perhaps it will be a new kingdom.
there is an endless source of hope
for when the night won't lift;
our bodies extend, we learn to cope
and weed out memories from the grit.
a night like this, so full of guilt,
steeped in story and pictures of dawn:
at gold, we swirl and race and tilt
towards morning with blunt swords drawn.

VIVE, NO MUERE.
in all the intricacies of life,
built into the interplay of words and bodies
and action and motion and noise,
in the details
of articulation and attention--
that's where i find home.
always a sense of belonging
in every conversation, in every exchange
of touch or thought or trust:
the rights of freedom and speech and
movement and assembly and adoration
are in my footsteps,
follow in the paths i create.
in your words, just pouring like a waterfall
out of your mouth and over your lips
where i could place a hydraulic wheel
to capture your strength--
in your words, i am empowered, i am
all but evangelical
in my effervescence and eager messaging.
so breathe with me, here, in this place,
make the air into energy
and come explore all the possibilities
that our mouths offer each other.
in words, in lightning,
like a tornado whipping through
a clumsy, crippled midwest town--
let us rip, let us writhe in the electricity
drawn from detail, molded from memory
and powered by the past.

what is given is a gift, is
a diagram of independence and
how to be the selfless, seamless
vision of man your mother
thought she had raised you to be.

what is given is a burden,
and weighs hard on sloped shoulders;
you must bear up beneath it,
disciplined like atlas, whose arms
shudder with sobs and sighs.

what is given is a template for risk
and action: you must grow inside
of the lines, or risk losing
something big and bloody, the task
of maturity and possibility.

when the stars come out this night,
they'll show something much greater
than what was there previously:
a man whose stride has evened,
whose pathway is strict and straight.

in her a kind of
feral sexuality blooms,
a predatory flush of cheeks and lips
that catches his eyes,
whenever he glances past her.
a potency so obvious
it becomes unattractive, it becomes
more definition than trait:
as he brushes past her,
he senses patience
and hunger, a prowling faith
in the waiting game.
he knows she will never move,
as long as he stands still;
he knows she will tear him to pieces
as soon as he flinches.

the impetus to start writing again
is slow at first, a creeping sensation
(words in the blood, words in the marrow)
of disarticulation, or silence.
and then a moment, cached in sunshine
and citrus daylight, the window
of words gently opening to the warmth.
(what your presence means:
what your body says to me here
in the twilight as we wind down,
twined together again in fingertips
and emotions and ideals.)