Under

one hundred and fifty-five men
sleeping under my feet

Shine Caswell Marley
the wind blows over you
the sky is grey today
and you cannot see it, but
it makes the moss greener,
where it creeps along the wall

just hold tight to your brother
and stop your ears from hearing
the crickets chirp above you
and the traffic whizzing by

i will mourn for you
Mr. Marley, since no one else
knows you're gone.
but if you come to visit
i will leave.

Old Man Young

his shirt is black and shiny,
like his skin

he is looking out over the bridge
and the sun is beating down
he is watching the birds
soaring and weaving

"Once," he thought, "a long time ago, I had youth."
but his youth has gone
the lines on his face are like the rings
in a tree

"Who took my body, and left me this dried husk?"

the cars are flying past him
and he is the lamp post on the street
except to a girl,
who sees him with her dark eyes
and writes him down

her imagination remembers him as he was,
so many years ago

On The Day She Learned To Tribe

Yesterday, I caught a glimpse of the ethereal threads that bind us all together.
They were gossamer and fragile, and
shimmering, like the sun on a spiderweb, that is strung among the leaves.

I am learning that "tribe" exists in the every day encounter.

I am learning that "sister" is a broad, encompassing term that has very little to do with blood, age, or the color of skin. The number of sisters you have is limited only by the number of women you know.

I am learning that "beauty" is vast and powerful, and sometimes hovers below the skin's surface, waiting for the one that will appreciate it. Then it unleashes in awesome and terrifying glory.

I am learning that the strongest bonds and most profound friendships (the ones that take your breath away) are sometimes the ones that are forged in seconds, instead of years.

I am learning that Dance is no trivial movement of muscles, but rather a canvas on which the best dancers apply the many hues of human emotion. The most brilliant dancers paint in technicolor, but sometimes monochrome is all we know.

I am learning how to speak my truths.

Monsieur Bellocq

last night I dreamt
of perfect photographic images,
(the subject of each was blurred)
a white cat,
my friend Rebecca, and
a gentleman who only wanted
to take my picture -

to look and never touch

From My Window, As I Miss You

1. the steam from my cup
2. the low murmur of voices
3. the glint of light on the chrome
4. the moss between the bricks
5. the strum of the mandolin
6. the wag of the tail
7. the hand nestled in the pocket
8. the cheery rustle of the morning paper
9. the cracks in the tile
10. the sharp click of her heels on it
11. the keys dangling from the hand
12. the creak of the old wooden door

you are all of these to me
and more.