YES WE DO BLEED ON PAPER
NOT BECAUSE WE ARE AFRAID TO EXPRESS OUR EMOTIONS
NOT BECAUSE WE DO NOT HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY
NOT BECAUSE WE DON'T HAVE PEOPLES TO TALK TO
BUT WE DO BLEED ON PAPER

WE DO BLEED ON PAPER
JUST BECAUSE A PAPER WONT BETRAY US
IT WONT CRITICIZE US
IT WONT JUDGE US
IT KNOWS THE WORD SECRET
AND HOW TO APPLY IT
BECAUSE IT IS ALWAYS THERE
DURING OUR DARKEST DAYS
THAT IS WHY WE DO BLEED ON PAPER

WE BLEED ON PAPER
BECAUSE ALL WE NEED IS A PIECE OF PAPER AND AN INK

I’m stuck scared in the dark wars
my soul has been fighting for so long.
Where the colors of freedom
are as lightless as my dreams.
A place where I thought
I’ve built
my own path,
With gleaming rose petals I scattered
as guide
when I couldn’t find my way home.
And as I continue to travel
the route of strength and despair,
Begging to dance with me,
the healing light came.
But my muddy, mangled feet seemed
unresponsive and silent.
My heart’s withering and weakening.
My soul’s totally worsening.
The sky went gray again
and the dark clouds rolled in.
But nothing can totally dim
my valorous heart that shines within.
I got up and started dancing my prayers with my heartbeat as music.
My body resonated with love
and the light’s most powerful healing.
A melodious, creative cosmic rhythm wrapped my entire being.
With the ethereal light continued
to dance through every tiny cell of me.
Mending,
Surviving,
In these blustery storms,
I’m still dancing.

Imagine that
I could write a salve,
compose an ointment of verbal herbs to heal,
even mere protect the already-torn-so-easy mental flesh,
just to disguise/hide the multi-colored bruising our
fickle mistress-in-common provides when you are down so far
another bruise joining the cast like a  floodplain subsuming one more feeding creek bed into the shapelessness of indistinguishability

imagine that

where atoms hide eternal between creation and destruction,
borrow brief the set exact you require to restore the taken years
from fathers/mothers/brothers/sisters,
children,
return that which went unused by the uninvited, unseemly human whim of war and lies for no gain

imagine that

the deep sinkhole of despair that ***** one in, years in the formation, appearing in instance, and worse does not drowns but leaves helpless, unable to climb out, and all our scratching digs us in deeper until we cannot be, seen or heard or just be

imagine that

a check comes in the mail, payable left open for filling-in,
in the amount of full restoration, with no additional fees of guilt needed for deposit and cashing/caching out: and you wake up
and the stony chest is breathing lungs free

imagine that

and I do; for I am the smoke of return and rest, sky inscribing,
knowing precise needs and the screams and the years unfair taken,
they are screened through the five perceptions, and the word weaver
sets the loom for each peculiar requisition, no imagination needed

imagine that

you lament and anger demand verifiable proofs mathematical,
cursing the knights of false hopes with untethered regret

I do not imagine that; hear it and accept; my task, imagine that, making you imagine that, thus commencement of repair begins
when

we imagine that

for this how new healthy cells  are born

quiet-now,  go, imagine-that, now

let the lying begin

first, it's ***** - not *******.
don't pretend its scientific,
like geology, physiology.

It's just ***. raw and without boundaries.
you watch. you fantasize. you deny.

then when your conscience questions,
you lie, first and foremost,
to yourself.

what's your favorite category?
got a favorite site?
or you like to explore,
never satisfied, more?
more.

Let the hunger games begin.
who can lie with straightest face?

filter me off of your list,
unless you ready to follow me,
to where truth rules,
no punches pulled,
raw is real. *** is raw.
real is ***.

otherwise, why would you still be reading this
poem?

gotcha.

scribing with smoke and utter devotion
———————————————-

****!

half an orange, half a grapefruit,
on a crystal dish, resting on a fine china plate,
Royal Worcester, from England  retrieved,
in a smoke cloud, upon my chest appears

the coverlet up to my chin pulled,
my arms tucked in tight, side by side,
the light turned off, the television too,
who?  in a smoke cloud, catch a faintly glimpse

the menu does not mention love, or utter devotion,
no recollection of ordering either, and yet,
here I-am, well served, piping hot and well chilled,
scribing of one’s shadow, she who never disappears

she, whose never disappoints, late in the evening,
early in the morning, a mirage, a ghost, magical elusive,
lightest touch of a forehead kissed, a tingle for evidence,
but not the only proof of her
utter loving and devotions appearance