full of trumpets

being able to lift your chin and smirk for the camera

doesn't make you bullet proof or superhuman 

grow, grow, leech, vine

the ego is still as temporary as skin

even the grandest of it 

eventually

burns

there is, though, a subtle body of love

that outlives the lines of your fleshy meat

it is full of secret wishes

as simple as kindness or the rhythm of an encouraging drum

it is full of trumpets 

and emptying breaths

and tears that cascade

down salty cheeks 

into the corners of upturned lips

267/365 : ben

i'd like to come back to you year after year
a little more scared each time
a little more
naked
and fine with it
i'd like to come back to you
and press my palm against your palm
feel our muscles touch
and then move slower
in the meeting of our eyes

draw the line

I'm drawing new lines

like a painter

not sure

exactly where 

the fire will crack 

or bend backwards--

only what needs to be burned

from my pallet 

of "sounds good"

236/365 : what does a dead end look like in your mind?

i imagine a brain
gray or pink
wet and inexplicably wonderful
crevices like windowsills
in a building that's all curled up
these pathways
that say, stay here
don't dismantle 
don't untangle
my place 
in this mess
this meaningful 
inexplicable 
chaos
i like where i belong
even if it got suddenly dark
suddenly stopped in the forrest of
thick bushes and over grown trees and out of control weeds
don't make me take the machete
to the way i am
don't make me carve a new plan
there is a flickering
locket in the
subconscious
of my fantasy
and inside it a picture
of who i want to be
spins and turns
pulls that stubborn
crab, curled up
in that hard shell magic
pulls it
into the sea

235/365 : no such thing

every little thing
on my tiny little list
feels impossible

my belly has
a thousand pound weight
magnetizing it to the mattress

there's no such thing
as a double negative

234/365 : my one wish

once upon a time
my one wish
was a window--
white walls
white curtains
white comforter

everything
blank
inside

233/365 : what's truer than i can stand to write?

a blank page

wordlessness