today the weather is wild

it almost depends which window you look out of

the kitchen one shows me rain and grey,

but from my room I see the blue sky, clouds,

sun peeking through. at one point 

looking up from my screen I notice in the slight distortion

of the building across the street's windows that

it is raining, raining and sunny, raining and sunny at the same time.

it all seems such a clear metaphor, the confusion of my mind,

life, the world, a matter of which window, panes we open and close,

everything a process of opening and closing, letting be,

a matter of perspective.

 last night he says

I will be in her life - as long as she wants me to be

I will always be there for her

and something inside you breaks a little

shatters, the shard lodged there

just there

I'm sorry, you say, that's just a bit triggering for me to hear.

Then opening your computer to find the photo of him waiting

the little note, with the heart on it,

slipped in by josé, and you say:

oh.

What is it? Michelangelo asks, and you say, José brought me my things.

Show me, show me. Show me, me.

From the altar

Show me, show me.

He takes it gently, looks at the skyline. The art deco skyscrapers,

Central Park so iconic. You tell him about the matching photo, 

the pair. It is clear in your mind, your memory.

These images, these photos you search for in the digital world, 

in boxes, everywhere, everywhere, even if you cannot find them,

they are there, perhaps in the safest place, your mind.

Writing a letter to love this morning, about what is precious,

your own song comes on, a meditation on the same medium,

sacred plums, bruises and joy, mixed together, 

into something we could never hold.

(Georgia to Texas)

 I always love the last song on the album
The one that doesn't quite fit
Pushes you out onto the sea
Into the endlessness

 I cannot control (and yet I want to, so badly).

If you'd like to be a bitch, please go ahead and be my guest.

Can I not rise to the challenge?

To the bait you set me. Turn around and try to be my friend.

You are like a strangler vine. You climb over everything. 

I do not want to grace you with my time.

And yet hating you is another mode of letting you win.

Giving you my frustration.

to hear from you

soothes me. tendrils of insecurity

that wrap their way around my arms receding

with the reassurance of the memory of your touch.

biking to school today, a song comes in from the other night,

and I blush involuntarily, a shiver of pleasure inside at the 

last time I heard this song, context: in your room, in your bed,

mind numb, dopey, skin on skin, skin on skin. this is the antidote

to the fire the other arises in me, suddenly everything burning

I can never be enough, can't know what's on his mind as he walks home

if I even am, if anything of this is, even the smallest hint of jealousy

obliterating my mind overrun with ants and anger, swarming with scorpions,

ready always to yell: revenge! traitor! cheat! and you - you are good - and you

are pure - and you are mine all mine and only known about by those who I let

not those who take these good basic things and split them in two like crackers

to dip in their coffee. even if I cannot expel these middle school girls from my life

(like cockroaches they refuse to die) I will not invite them to dine on my secrets.

I will find a way to wave to them across the water. Let others chat with them, that is not

my affair - after all I am not a puppeteer. Let my own friendships be enough, let me trust in them

and if and when the hurt comes, I will break like a damn in my sorrow, 

I will flood the city and wash it clean and I will leave no one, rejoice in no one,

but myself (and maybe, you).

little bits

Last night, jumping around,

my hair flying, feeling like I

was a figment, a filament, free,

Rozi under the blue lights across 

from me, dancing.

---

I have so many things to say to you

that I am never going to

some things are like that

tough and go

words aren't everything you know

visions are like memories

like images in the puddles of the street

pass me by like light shadows on the ceiling

rhythmically

---

The streets of copenhagen 

in the dark of the morning

talking games like kids

to let it be simple and deeply flawed

to not obsess over this

(But I am an artist.)

---

And the light comes to touch the buildings 

lightly with the back of its hand

lingering like the scent of 

someone who has left,

but you wish had not.