This is how I remember you: eleven, your hands grip tightly at slick suspension cables that shake with each step. Rain makes everything shiny, slippery. We commit with each step, reach for moving ground to plant us. Pretend we’ll be here always, pretend there’s nowhere else we could be.

Almost believe it, as long as this bridge holds us.

Ey, guys I changed the look, to one that I thought was more friendly.

If you don't like it please let me know or change it.

Hugs 

I have been delivered

I was born a few days ago

I carry the responsability of this mind, body and soul

their relatioships are mine to develop

and their one'ness my goal 

I see so much, but I see nothing

I hear so much, but I hear mostly silence

I feel so much

but I am not there

I am there, and everywhere

The world dances

but I am still

The world changes

I do not

The world is still

but it's only I who changes

We dance together 

I am here

I exist

I see you

I see me

I, yes I

I've been waiting  so long,

for this moment

the time of truth

the awakening

the opening of my eyes

to the depthness of my being

I am full

I am in love

as it is my nature

 I feel I

I live in I

I move thru and in I

I see only I

hear only I

So I am I 

I might be dreaming as I remember now, feel my memory shake and grasp at people who disappear. The reaching creates empty air like ghosts. This thought is like a flower and it falls further from me each time.

The flaming fuselage screams through space,

spinning,

out of control.

I paint the sky with violence;

a jab, a hook; I back-hand a

lipstick smear and pock the

cloudscape with curses.

Anything the appropriate size

for kicking and stomping catches Hell.

I am Goliath, rampant.

Watch out World!

When I reflect on

cowardice and bravery:

is one of them more wise,

the other knavery?

You sit alone in a memory, your mornings part of me now as I move through a space that doesn’t hold you anymore. No one knows I’m here.

Like 10 years earlier: marmalade on toast, small teacup, half-grapefruit. I’ll watch you in pyjamas from the dining room, your glass figurines as fragile as me, invisibile.

"I must've kneeled in the wrong place,

and prayed to the wrong god."

Sometimes maps don't do the

territory justice. How do you

account for culture, language,

and social (mis) demeanor?

The subtleties and xenophobia

hang like wet clothing and

inappropriate fashion decisions.

I walk out of step. (People stare

if you're the only one who isn't afraid)

What makes us weird? How do I get past

my prejudice for comport, affect and mannerism,

when people seek to cast feces and howl?

This is where I find your memory: the spot where skin meets, softly traces another’s outline as it recognizes itself. A place in this old house holds pictures I once did, condensed to small parts.

You talked as your mouth made shapes. No sounds just pictures I found to go with shapes. I saw that girl collapse in your living room, saw parts of me moving as you did.

I pretended to move with you. Not your words but mine are now space bars between us.

We speak intimacy into some small parts touching, mingle breath like braids as they weave through spaces inside, between. This closeness is like air waiting. I’m waiting. I carry your weight in memories.

Fudge-snacking and sludge-packing;

engines pumping sleaze,

wheeze like a lech and retch

into the gutter

and sputter

and spit,

having fits,

skin splits from

contusions,

bruises,

pus sluices

from

the damnable,

corrupted,

flesh.

You speak softly this close, breathe air into these parts of me. This closeness is like noses touching, like toes crinkling inwards that rub against carpet when no one sees. In the spaces between us we can’t see, words grow into thoughts, grow into stories no one tells. I carry your weight in these stories like memories.

 Here, in this loft, we draw out our endings

with paint, fill canvas with what we don’t say,

blend into shuffling cards at each muted sound

we rattle off, nervous.

We cling to meaning

like floss, buckle ourselves down

until we ourselves buckle under the weight of loss,

weight of words lost between us. This absence

is a wrench and with each word

we twist

farther apart.

Truth snowballs out, uncovers layers of melting ice.

Sienna sounds emerge: sun ribbons unraveling.

Each article a watered-down imprint of source.

Filament like stretch marks pulls out parts

stilled from growth, borne of stilled motion,

stretched from thorax to a vessel that holds me, more than me,

these threads extensions of what’s inside.

Words come out as proof of what’s there.