What is a Writer? (i'm not not a writer)

There's a secret poem somewhere,
-I can't tell you where, it's a secret-
and it grows like ivy, in the dewed virgin forest
nipping the bud of nearly there blooms
-shhhhh, you can almost hear it dancing-
it settles between bricks, half sheltered by moonlight
-quiet now-
sleeps near the horizon, closest to the dawn

Twilight is a Spendthrift

Tease me baby,
Tangle me up
Find me relentless
Hold me rough
Tuck me in tightly
Roll me up snug
Dance me home softly
Suck me down, on, in.

Scre/am/n

It's a daily duty to fold back the sheet
Slide gently down into oblivion
Well adjusted brightness level on the screen
Eyes mind-as-well-be-closed

Sneak your pre-requisite peak into something someone somewhere was an
expert on
you

merry-go-round-and-round-we-go-merry

you
expert on
something someone somewhere was an

But overall, I really feel like this is unfair.  Please, give me a chance to redeem myself. I promise, I won't let you down.  Merry, go round.

Inspired by Kerouac

tomorrow I will
start writing the narrative
of your life, your own

Generation

Even though the wind swept,
categorically boxed in
20 somethings
read labels
follow directions
know right from "right"
describe her to me
are less than monopolizing
tell me how to live my life
lists of lists of lists
and zombie comic movie books
letters to this and higher ups
are connected
what to whom, and nobody says that anymore
connect less dots
are afraid and entranced by touch

distract
ed.

NDSU

This day has barely begun
I miss the yellow that dances in your eyes
salty smell of morning
your smile as you hold my hand
across the driver's seat as golden salmon sun behind us falls

We divide and conquer ourselves,
our strengths float like bubbles
in the bathtub of our weaknesses

Silver moon
We wake up and scream 
ONLY LOVE
The phantom pain of an empty bed
permeates our senses

I am sitting on a plane
I am laying in our bed
I am listening to your voice
I am waiting by the turnstile
I am climbing up the mountain
I am walking through the forest
I am here where you are, with you,
love you.

summer

we fell together, amidst the ocean of eyes
unaware and unsurprised of one another
until the sky opened up, dancing with northern lights
hillsides whispered around us,
and the sun refused to set

I looked up, a small beam of dusty light revealed itself to me
and time collapsed

we fell down, between the pages of a book
a soft cloud-like hammock
the dull pressure of sun on our faces
dry and restless wanting
between the linen embrace of ink and words

we fell asleep, amongst the reeds of the marsh
tickled by the swaying of the breeze
the earth slowly pulled itself over us,
tucked us in beside the stream
and we awoke enveloped in water

A Little Something Something

I'm so sick of writing (about all the things that make me inadequate)

The half-truths, the insecurities, the need

I run through a field of weeds that grow like flowers,

the temporary greenest of my bare feet

the sky welcomes me with outstretch arms

I touch the centre of myself so briefly I collapse

in the overwhelming ecstasy of self-fulfilment

that explodes between both hemispheres

cascades down my spine

and flows between my legs

I remember the morning I woke up and said:

"What if the light from these eyes is extinguished?"

In languor, the quicksand of knowing, trapped.

I smell the drying of storm water in the eavestrough

The light mist of dirt that accompanies the cat 

A sticky yellow flavoured refrigerator door

Welcoming and vast and endless and comforting and small and open and scary and liberating and 

and

and

Leaving

I tell the mountain: you can only be this tall
the slender hand of forgiveness, forgives us all
and if the stream runs upwards,
the woods and meadows call
I sing to the slighted hillsides, I sing them tall

I watch the night guard wander: I tell him to be loud
the simple pleasure of a a mockingbird, unable to be proud
and if a single stem is broken,
the lark can barely sing
I whisper to the enchanted landscape, I let him scream

I let you touch me: you can only be this person
the fists that captures the waves, salt stained tongue
and if the violin strings tighten
the sounds is even clearer
I lay asleep at night, I create you

Dream Journal

Jan 27. Live cats in a display case. Some big, some small. Some were dying and malnutrition had set in, others were fine. I thought about selling them in a big Internet ad, and the room they were in was really dirty. I fed the kittens solid food but they needed their mothers milk. One mother looked really sick. They all looked like Moll or Anna except for a few that were ginger and white, with pale eyes that looked confused.An East Indian man helped to clean the room the cats were in and he did such a good job I thought about asking him to come back every week to clean. But I realized he wasn't a maid, he could have been my landlord. A man that could have been a different man or maybe not came and said he would take care of the cats, but he took the sick and the healthy ones. He put them all in a box that went into a red firetruck. And I knew they died or were going to die and I was sad but I felt a tinge of relief because the house would be clean and I felt the strange contradiction of guilt and relief shake hands inside me.  And then something else happened but my mind left me.