I was asked,
not for the first time,
to describe myself.
Everyone is asked this question
at least once
in their life.
I wonder
if everyone struggles,
like I do,
to define yourself
in a brief and acceptable way
We are all asked
what are our interests?
What food do we like?
What places have we seen?
But how do you even begin to tell someone
that your favorite place is not
special;
at least, not in the traditional sense.
My favorite place
is a bridge by a river
where at least once every so often
they find someone dead.
I like it because
the river makes a sound
in between a sigh and a bubble;
like the whooshing of wind
without the commitment to the sky.
It is not a beautiful bridge.
It is old, and concrete, and covered in moss
and graffiti of unsavory sayings.
But underneath the bridge,
there are large stones and pillars
where you can sit and watch the water
and wonder.
How do you tell someone all of that?
Of course, you don't.
You tell them
'I don't know, what about you?'
and go your separate ways,
knowing you've both been
vague.

I am among the Here and Now,
where I find myself standing on the sidewalk
in the middle of a town full of people
and I suddenly feel small;
a profound, reaching feeling
that is called 'alone',
a single word that means everything
I realize that though I know
where I am
and I know each stone by name
I feel out of place;
the sort of misplacement that
makes me feel like a stranger
to my own heart
My own hands begin to feel like
raw, new skin
And I do cherish the words on my tongue
because they are the only thing
that feels familiar and real

Small;
a word engraved in every stretch mark
Like butterflies, our youth
who feast on sugar water
as though life
is a number on the scale
And isn't that what we taught them?
To be small.
And we don't say 'person',
we say 'big' and 'heavy'
we put sneers into the word 'fat'
and make it a creature to be afraid of
And when our loved ones crumble
like glass, or chalk
we are suddenly full of the love we refuse to give
we are compassionate to their struggle
because they're small.
"It's not healthy"
But neither is judging someone's worth
by the size of their waist
or the shape of their face
or the food on their plate
'Healthy'
is not a reason to hate.

A sickness spreads among us
a chill that runs blood-deep
we kiss the fevered brow of love
and mother's all do weep
we raise the flags of plague-hood
and fall upon the steep
of churches bright and merry
and wish our souls to sleep
we plead with the forgotten
the **** of death will seep
we beg our hearts, remember;
we're given what we reap

This is a dream
wrapped up in an idyllic ribbon of serenity
Our spoken fallacies
are thusly graven into stones
that grow and break
beneath the turntable of time
and are seen forevermore
as the truth
I braid this ribbon
into the hair of tomorrow
and create a golden crown
that we may use to rule
our lies

I am the corpse
that stares at the wall
with open eyes
I watch it fall
The dust rains down
a scattered heap
like snow
it falls
and I still sleep
I am the corpse
that stares at the wall
with glazed-over eyes
I see nothing at all
The rain comes down
like shattered glasses
like a clock
I measure the time as it passes
I am the corpse
that stares at the wall
with cataract eyes
I see it all
The fire dies down
like the crow
at church masses
like a feather
I drift in the wind as light flashes

She fills her heart with paper
and she fills her lungs with words
and when she breathes
her blood is a song
that her body wrote
She drapes herself in colored ink
and dances in the rain
and the water pools below her
in swirls of inky stains
She fills her heart with paper
and she fills her lungs with paint
and when she breathes
her blood is a picture
that her eyes drew
She drapes herself in poetry
and dances in the rain
and the water pools below her
in swirls of written pain
She fills her heart with paper
and she fills her lungs with soot
and when she breathes
her blood is a fire
that her mind created
She drapes herself in ashes
and dances in the rain
and the water pools below her
her words, like dragons, slain