Your fabrics are falling down again,

draping as

sharp cuts against bony back

Sore and gasping for air

Please just knock it in

Remind its lungs how air feels 

Strewn out and scattered

I am recollecting my insides but I 


these are the pinnacles that orbit and search out

every edge and crevice

until the floor is unfindable



I was content with writing the words for you. I always had too many of them anyway. You had none for me.

And I had plenty for you. I had all the time in the world. And in your silence, I perverted your eyes into poetry. Stanza one; your eyelashes. Stanza two; your confronting corneas. Stanza three; your blink; a passage of time that developed us in the dark room of separation. Polaroids, strewn everywhere and then some; sunken in boxes that you didn’t see; my boxes. And over time you became the art that surrounded me, following me to California, spilling my blood on the sands, hearing the birds rumble and uproot over me. But I am constantly flightless. You left me on this earth with a nagging habit of loving the words that formed you. Poetry has a shaky way of playing keys that sound like you.

When I rise

My shoulders are sore-feeble with the burden of the night’s fall

The darkness, it takes from me what the Lord promises

It eats the meat, and leaves the bones, bones, bones

my bones rattle in nakedness

they are hashed and suffer in hollow existence

fearful of the promises I am unable to believe

Here He offers me my every desire, every kind of raindrop, sun drop, 

every kind of splendid wind 

every embrace of the light I am capable of feeling


But my arms are crossed

because although His love does not flee

I do

And because my heart does not bind to every, single, unrelenting LOVE

every time He opens the gates


I shy 

I fail

My hands fall limp at the sight of God’s command

I do not even raise the dagger over Issac


For me to believe, I need to bottle the beauty,

confine the perfume of a heaven sent moment

for it flees, 

I seek the security of a Pharoh

Who is cruel, unfaithful to the people, but still he calls himself God

My inconstancy shivers in a raw, foul, gross film 

I suffer in the chains of the enemy, stubbornly waiting in unworthiness 

Professing that God can do the rest, without a single word of prayer

Here He has loved me without a moment of undesire. He has pursued me, when I am nothing but that like the heart of Gomer.

He says, I have blessed you, I have reclaimed you every time you run.

You are ripe, you are ready to love me.

You are ready for your inheritance.

See, you are clothed in white

The heavens call you amended, blessed, perfect and springtime 

Speak to me with the tongue of the redeemed.