Do you see, grasp in the nowhere and nowhen
the whole picture?
Register the tedious highs, lows, widths and breadths
before your private, iridologic rainbows?
Like grasping the rims of “allness” on the path of a forest,
letting yourself grow a vertigo, fragile and docile.
Every, every time you meet up with a person,
do you encompass in your grasp, mind’s eye, all they are, all they are,
at that one very time?
My vision dims out into dependence, when glasses leave, when the forest my attendance seeks
in utter loneliness without my harmony with it weaved.
I no longer have in survival advantage
but it feels more than right to fall, give over,
I give myself fragile, more just, and fit.
In that vulnerability I can see more than
a healthy eye can: Van Gogh’s work on my trees’ leaves.
That is what all presences, forms and life’s skies are for:
fragileness, undoneness, nothingness, reasonlessness

The porcelain
wind of the
moon lifts
it’s wings
of mine
to see
the clouds,
deserts and
dreams of
reality as
one, the
endless
stories of
the green
and golden
fields of
painted
starlight,
the breath
of unspoken
songs in the
conversation
of eyes, too
aerial to be
held, as the
rising, gentle
wind through
the leaves,
and the hair
of lovers in
discovery
of forests
touched
with mist,
rising above
the mountains,
falling as the
song of rain,
they are
rain dancers
who see poetry
as all, and all
is water

Porcelain begins to shatter
These dolls we all know to well
Looking past beyond the laughter
There is a story to tell:
Up on our shelves you eye us everyday
You pull us down, you want to play
Our bodies hit the floor
In pieces, you don't want us anymore

Porcelain put back together
You aren't done playing yet
Our skins stained, our clothes rags, tattered
We still can never forget:
In a corner catching dust
You never ever cleaned us up
We're left alone lying, traumatized
Unwanted in your hungry eyes

Porcelain isn't the better
Our shards, they cut your hand
And your feet, you should've never
Played rough, do you understand?
Fragile, you never handled us with care
Our bodies break, our clothes you tear
Now you're the one who bleeding
We're thrown away, defeated

I think smooth
Soft
White

Porcelain stands up to much
But one little crack sends it to the garbage

Porcelain is strong
Disguised as weak

As though her skin was stained porcelain white
She slipped back down from the sky cracked and marred
Though every second of my gaze was wasted
As in her final instance; before departure
She was stained porcelain white

I often wonder
if I am but a teacup
to your boils.
Without me
Where would you set
your pinkie
Where would you pour
your cream
Where else to discuss
the “new mortality”
but about my heated air?