It was silk that was choked on,
It was wind which was blowing.
For the fly never is caught
Until the act of consumption!
Yet, if by consumption,
Is the spider itself conditioned?
What few arachnids shall spin no web,
Like few snakes whom have no venom.
Defanged or deglanded,
I suppose only fools make distinction
Between either of them.
Yet, if by the action,
Is the hand itself also conditioned?

Don't search for me for where I am,
I'm not searching for where you are.

To that which you "belong."

Don't look for me to the future,
For I learned your histories & they are repulsive.

The records are detailed & long.

Don't give no magnification on my past,
For I have the details of your future.

Wrong is just wrong!

Call: Where are you?
Answer:... (Collecting Flowers)
I'm here and there
I'm every where beside you.

it showed
an utter disdain
for the conventions
of such an event
that they would
not toe the line
like the others
they proffered
none of the standard
shoulder-dipping
sidestepped shuffles
nor the exuberant
failing of arms
that have come
to be expected
of "good" dancers
those overused staples
that accompany such
predictable song choices
outdated and enjoyed
only ironically
this dance could not
faithfully manifest
their truth

they danced
not for that unnoticed
peripheral audience
but solely
to tell a story
to one another
instead they chased
cavorted and capered
with piggybacks
and fireman's lifts
arms-spread spinning
they became fireworks
their bodies
exploding apart
pulled together
breathlessly
slipping
   and stumbling
without a care
leaping shoelessly
from place to place
from song to song
ending always
in each other's arms

Am I unworldly?

And should I suffer with you?


Is my pain too small?

Am I unworldly?

What kind of world is it then?


This one, where I am?

I'm getting older:

more experiences, more --


different from you.

Most individuals aim for speculative wealth,
these linear channels are paralleled in others
when taught to gain a greater sense of self.
If we continue to grow grouped as a collective,
are the surroundings around you yours alone.
Priorities are often lost in the process of reformation claimed through phased stages and good fortune is drawn in multiple forms.
Step aside for an instant to question contempt and observe at your own mixed objectives,
foreseen in the dreams of who you want to be.
Not visions of anarchy or set enforced orders but a better balance of autonomy in between.

patchwork girl dreaming
piecing together the scraps of silk
frayed ribbons of broiderie anglais
the tears of velvet darker than midnight
squares of sackcloth hessian made to scrape
against skin both thick and paperthin

patchwork girl sewn together
with a golden thread and a needle finer than hate
embroidered edges with floss spun by spiders
from clouds of dreams, flower thoughts, starwonders
and fragile pockets of maybe hidden beneath morning dew
stitches all lose, then too pulled too tight

she is together
she is all fallen apart
the soft shape of a doll
the tender shape of a girl

hold her, not an armful of scraps
     but something precious, one of a kind
          couture