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part of being alive is always getting hurt

smoke

i can’t fight with my tongue to save my life. if and when you want to try to humble me i can give you this secret that you can use. challenge me to a match of violent deliberate speech and i assure you that you will win every time, this is my promise.

having said this, i come as an inarticulate fellow full of confusion willing to turn and start over if this cannot be understood and if you cannot hear me. tell me that you’re busy, that life is hard, that we are scared, and i will show you the evidence of these doings on me too. i have the bruises from the come backs where i have come again and again. don’t let this crying or my speech fool you. no, i am a pro at backlashes and defeats. i am a brick wall. i am like air. i come like a punching doll for more, but each time, less jaded…

you
enter
me
…you enter like you enter my room.
you live here like a member of my body.
you have me, like
you had me, if you want me. (agreeing that all things change.)
like when i didn’t even need to have a name.
no title, just you.
entering me, always the same.

if it’s still snowing outside, look there. it belongs to you.

“the earth longs to be free,
the sky searches for home.
making love, they grew me.”

it swirls around
coming to a fall,
but coming also to dance.
and the air is thick with It,
bending from the sky,
escaping up like dust from the belly of the world,
as if the wishes that the ground sent have returned from the past
to mark a place with it–
touching the body of earth,
like an answered prayer;
letting an unmoving land,
grounded to the world,
unite with an intangible sky,
floating homeless in the heaven.
i become wrapped around them
walking in their loosely knit blanket that is made in seconds
of moments
of memories
of wishes
that swirl around me,
enclosing me in light before they fall,
vanish and melt away into the ground.
it is here that the earth swallows them up,
these legends of movement,
this weeping of a drifting experience.
the earth swallows them and kissing them,

two street boys in morocco

tells heaven, from its stationary state that, “Every thing will be okay.”
always living with the vagabond,
dreaming near its noise until the next time,
heaven tightly taps the ground without as much as a hush,
inviting it to drink from it,
moving it to dream,
leaving it fast,
living underneath,
sinking low into its thick skin,
acting on it in secret,
until the morning, in a rush of snow,
the loud sun
pieces out the distance.
white smoke gushes up to heaven and is blown down.
church steeples are unmoved.
running to the feet of the chapel,
bare boned limbs raise their arms to god.
raising their arms through cracked skin,
the moving green is
making love to the sky.
the same sky that mirrors everything the earth’s body is not,
but which is forming a lushness, growing from something’s loss,
springing from someone’s weeping,
harmonizing in between rupture,
acting as a mirror for the other,
always dreaming of rapture,
always making love on its back,
watching upward to its lover in heaven.

(for you)

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