a galaxy that’s full of dust and light

a galaxy that’s full of dust and light
whole worlds concocted from another’s detritus
and man, so small, eyes closed against the night

a collapsing star, a chasm built in space
bodies far bigger than the mind can hold
a galaxy that’s full of dust and light

the solemn edge of routine morning coffee
an afternoon commute, traffics frustration
and man, so small, eyes closed against the night

the footprints of ancient giants, gods almighty,
crafting universal causeways with a gesture
a galaxy that’s full of dust and light.

the incessant, tender buzz of summer insects,
the long awaited smile of a friend,
and man, so small, eyes closed against the night.

the pure attraction of a sheltering sky
its depth, an inescapable allure
a galaxy that’s full of dust and light
and man, so small, eyes closed against the night

Day Three: The en-itchening. Moving. And other minutiae.

Day three of tattoo recovery for me is the day that things stop feeling like sunburn and start feeling like dry, itchy skin.

So that’s just a joy to deal with. Not that I’m bemoaning my quick healing powers, but the itching is no fun at all.

We spent Frankie’s birthday having brunch, perusing used book stores, and buying video games. And then playing them until three in the morning. All in all, time well spent.

Today there will be bowling. Which I will attempt despite my itching back and current inability to wear a bra in public. The things we do for love.

This week we really need to get a large chunk of our packing done. We have two weeks until the move as of today. It’s always amazing to me how my procrastination works. It goes like this most of the time:

Step 1: Resolve to get a thing done.
Step 2: Start that thing and get a lot done.
Step 3: Get distracted and wander off.
Step 4: Count the days until the thing needs to be done.
Step 5: Do the rest of the thing at the last possible moment.

That is how moving has been. We have a bedroom full of boxes which are mostly books from the game room. But we haven’t done any packing since that first day. I mean, it’s good that that stuff is done, but we really need to buckle down and put things in boxes basically every night this week if we are going to avoid packing like maniacs the night before, which nobody wants to do. We certainly don’t want to be those people who pack while the movers are there. That’s unacceptable.

I’ve really been enjoying writing in my blog everyday for the NoMo challenge at Yeah Write. I hope you all have been happy to read what I’ve been putting out there.

Winter Moon

She mounts the heavens nightly in the cold.
In her curving orbit stately, ancient grace.
She eradicates the day, brings forth the night.

I never feel so loved as in the night.
Surrounded by her light, her gaze so cold,
the stars surrounding her with twinkling grace.

No lovers could compare to her in grace,
the way she carves out pathways in the night
and bathes me in her nimbent light, so cold.

Cold and full of grace, the moon appears
and guides me gently through each winter night.


Featured image found here.

Someone gently rapping.

A fluke, a quiet, shuffling sound. The tapping came, unasked for, as I sat writing. A tap, a rap, and then silence. I checked, but I saw nothing. Back to writing, my pen, unguided by my hand, had scrawled out, simply, “HELP.”

Nudity: An Ode

warm winds touch bare skin
softer when it is
divested of restraining fabrics

water kisses more gently
the flanks we bare
so willingly

similarly,
eyes see more clearly
into eyes
stripped of defenses

laid nude like
heroic marble
standing tall
and unafraid


Photo credit: Self portrait of a reclining Amelie Rives Chanler. (MSS 8925. Photograph by Petrina Jackson)

On the Revisiting of Feelings

Every once in a while, someone from my past will creep up into my mind and I will find myself scouring the internet for references to them.

Where are you working now?

Who are you loving?

The question that I always want to answer is a simple one.

Did I matter?

I find myself poring over the faces of people they have chosen in the years intervening. In the parenthetical space between knowing and unknowing. In the time it takes for a person to become emotional research rather than emotional expenditure.

There is a dusty old feeling to this motion. This knee jerk response. Something in my emotional DNA. Like whales migrating, I walk the pattern that is the cyclical absence and return of thoughts and feelings.

You come to mind.

I Google you.

I look at old pictures that show up. Sometimes I’m in them. I reflect on whatever masochism drew me to do this to myself.

I think about who I was when I was with you. I wonder who the people you are surrounded by are. What they are like. I wonder about the person you are loving the most. How they shift and change themselves to fit into the nooks and crannies of you that always need filling. How they pour themselves over the mold made of your flaws.

Do they thrill you?

Are you happy?

I worry my old loves like old wounds. Bruises that never get the chance to heal because of continual pressure. Blood that never dissipates. Scars that never lose their angry redness.

After I have looked at the last public picture. Perused the last blog entry or Facebook status, I sit back. I log out. And I let you fade.

Sometimes that makes the bruises look less angry. Sometimes the opening of old wounds relieves the tension.

Sometimes it doesn’t.

My questions never get answered, no matter the case. I want to know if I mattered. And I know it’s irrelevant. I know that, in the years that have passed between the first uttering of that question and this last riotous uprising, all the weight of whether I mattered has gone out of the question.

But I want to know.

So, when the mood strikes, I Google you. I search. And I find. And I wonder.

The Dissolution of Fear Itself

It eats at me
a gnawing thing
burrowing deep, it
settles into muscles
and organs.

I breathe it
into sentences
here
with you.

As I reveal it,
I feel it
breaking.
Teeth and jaws
melting
into bones
and sinew.

I’m fearlessly reborn.


Featured image from the Sleep of the Beloved series by Paul Schneggenburger.