OUTERLimits

one month sans Facebook. 
it's a tad lonely, i must admit,
on the fringe,
out of the warmth of the loop.

i'm still here, though.

tinY Dancer

even as a child

my spirit was too big for my body

so, half the time

the only way i could express

the biggest feelings

was to dance,
a wild, nonsensical dance, or
spin with my arms out,

brown face turned to the clouds

wishing my eyes blue.

i was a modern dancer

long before i knew there was a name

for what i was doing.

Where Cara Lives

i've lost you

in this crumbling old mansion

lost you to
the sparkle of grandeur
that was never ours


we set off exploring
with nothing to bind us together
you were lost from me
and i from you

and now you wander,
(barefoot, your tiny crown slipping)

where rainwater is pooled

over cracking marble floors

and vines come reaching through the walls

there is nothing else breathing here

but something else is dying here

seething

breathing

dying here

it is choking the life from us

the seething

breathing

 beating

life in us

we should leave

and go away

let it crumble

and consume itself

but i have lost you here

in the maze of this house

this dead and alive house

seething

breathing

dead house

i would call out to you

but i am afraid
of what might answer
i am afraid of bringing to me
something malevolent
and false in its beauty

the shrill of my voice

would shatter in my ears
like the splintering of old glass

and what else would hear me?

for i know it's listening

this seething and

breathing and

living 

dying

house

i hate to go
i hate to leave you here
but this is the house you built
your derelict house
seething
and breathing
house


one of us must
make it out alive
 i'll always remember
where you once lived.

The Morning News

Party divisions are for the brainless, spineless and weak.
To label yourself as one or the other tells me most of want I want to know about you.

Americans are continually surprised to learn that racism isn't just a disease affecting white folks.

Mel needs a shot of Thorazine in the butt,
and we shouldn't be privy to the occasional casualties of love and war, because
the de-evolution of someone's relationship is a private, intimate affair.

I should plant a rose garden.

In Twenty-Seven Years

thankful

that i might stretch out my hand

to any one of the many friends

i call my own

grateful for the love

the smiles and 

wishes for gentle sunlight

on my path

bless-ed

to know the crush of human affection

the press of familiar contact

in an alien land

satisfied

in the work i have chosen

the mission that chose me

that validates and sustains me

content

where i am

wherever i should find

myself

fortunate

to know the gifts

of dancer and audience

to speak and be

heard

to love and be loved

Letting Go the Butterfly

let it go

the sun is still shining outside

your life is spinning on and on without you
in jeweled colours, brilliant to behold

you've closed your eyes against them for too long

grow up

move on
it's time.

open your mind

open your fist
open your eyes

let the violins move you to tears

fall in love

let it go

see what your life would be, less connected

find peace,

in removing yourself from all the extracurricular

you will continue to breathe

stop thinking in status updates

pull the plug
take a breath, and pull the plug

on the insatiable desire to be connected

the connections you have

will mean more, that way
digital friendships leave your bones cold

it's going to be alright.

in the end, we'll all still be here.

you'll still be here. 
breathe in. 
open your fist.
breathe out.



let it go

bother

it's watching a bug crawl up the wall
wearing the hell out of my couch
knowing i would be happier
curled around my husband

but i just can't move.

the procrastination
Sabbath neverending
i haven't earned it.

did we make something new today?
we didn't do much else
slept off and on
flipping channels
felt worthless

the sun makes it too hot
to go out in the day

i feel the skin melting from my bones
into a useless puddle