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 ^{(it's beta!)}

I don't rhyme for people who won't respond in a manner fitting and true, and sometimes you'll find, when I have the time I only rhyme for you. And if the time cannot be found my poetry sucks and I hate the sound of words together, verse after verse (and you thought my writing couldn't get worse).

sadly i'm too lazy to keep the wicked awesome formatting that was on this piece. oh well. **************************************************************************************** And he asks me How I know While standing on The edge of the roof Kicking the goldenrod leaves Into the gutter I smile And respond The only true way With a shrug And a grin That turns brown eyes yellow. My blind eyes see What my lips couldn’t hear And I’m gulped down By the sun The moon will never love me Obsidian craters break my skin And never will I ever Stop what I begin. For verdant green Is fashioned there In the hair of the nymphs that sin And tree bark dances Turtle slow With the diving And the rising Of the wind. But purple freckles Light the way For frothy reddened teeth And the boy on the floor Shrugs his wings And ignores The reasons That are Me.

Heed the call of adventure, young one; listen to your bones. The world is grand and wide, hero, and you are far from home. Close your eyes and smile, changer, as you step into Unknown, And dream a dream that is not a dream, when courage is on loan. Then take apart your wounded heart and sit and rest a while, With sword in hand and skilled in art, of hiding 'neath a smile. Fight the fight against the might of mile after mile, And at the end, disappear my friend, into the numbered file. For when the battle's over, boy, the bard will make your song. Day by day they'll tell the tale, and though the night is long They'll drink a cup of light and gold, And merrily sing your song.

come with me dance with me we are three sisters who dance with you come with us sing with us run with us skipping beat tripping feet let us meet [you] where we are under stars very far shadows play ‘come!’ we say dance our way [far from home] grace we feel lives we steal love we deal dance with us lie with us cry with us die with us we are here for you.

he says he sees the world as a glass that's half full. HAH. there is no glass.

Pretty gave beautiful a black ‘i’ And moth kicked butterfly’s ‘butt’. The words were fighting A terrible war That was rather funny to see. The ‘ass’ in assumption was blackened and bruised By the fury and rage of the truth And peanuts took the ‘pop’ out of popcorn And roads grabbed the ‘tar’ in guitar. Death stole the ‘be’ from teddy bear And re got the ‘fa’ out of far. The ‘ears’ in years were taken by face And Hallowe’en trick or treated ‘boo’ from a boom And dog kicked the ‘arf’ out of scarf And kanga stole ‘roo’ from a room. The world had problems For books were torn and bloody, From the fighting going on inside. It really didn’t seem all that funny When the words started beating on our hides. The war of words raged on and on So we finally let words alone, But the war had no need to continue Words had finally made themselves known. (From then on, we wrote in numbers).

When I heard 'Stuart' I thought "Woohoo, a guard boy!" Anyway, she's hot.

There's a demon I have fed. His skin is hot, his eyes are red, And his thoughts are in my head But I don't want him out. The tempter has met with his sin, One fallen subject to human skin. A finger travels down his chin And my hand is at his throat. Lucifer the ever-proud, Tumbled from the highest crowd. Never then nor now allowed The lust that sin would sprout. No wings has he in temporal form, The devil may care about the norm. His hands are thunder, his eyes, the storm His fate, the words they wrote.

I spent days searching for a poem I would not dare to send to you.

We are the Bacchae, driven, trembling and fierce, by the touch of our god. Discarding rules brought us power when we danced our way in madness to the mountain. We were freed from the dominion of men, encouraged to do as we wished, and for that we honored our god. In a dark-purple sky the moon, russet-hued and low, lit our way; the night was ours. Once a year the god called us and bid us: do his work in lust and wine and careless revelry. Though one dawn we would return, footsore and sated, to our homes and husbands, for that time the hills and the nights were ours as we went dancing with our god. It has been thousands of years since we took up the call and ran wild in Boeotia. Now, when the hunter’s moon is large and low those of us who still remain, exhausted by more than just long hours in offices, stores, and schools, leave our houses and our husbands. We prepare for revelry in our own way, with black stilettos and long thin legs and shirts the color of a fox's fur that cling like fawn's skin to our shoulders. Our cymbals from the past have been replaced with hip-hop beats and synthesizer rhythms. If we are lucky, sometimes our god still finds us, drawn by our own erratic rapture and the dances that tell our misery of living with knowledge of a time long forgotten. For a second, perhaps, we might find ourselves drunk on the intensity of his touch, reliving our former ecstasy. But the sun must eventually claw its way back over the horizon and bleary-eyed, empty of all but a glimpse of our god, we return home.

Though I despair of ever writing words that can stand up to the closest scrutiny, my pencil still scrawls on paper, sharpie will still touch skin, calligraphy ink will still darken my fingertips. There is need, still, that drives me to dive from bed, 4 am, for my notepad or keyboard to capture dreams for morning. There will always be secret insanities placated only by the written page. I can't stop. I would not dare.

Had I been there, instead of he, had I fainted at my own trial before the ivory faces of those judges and their sadistic delight in the declaration of my torture I might have met my Fate, found the gentle rest of the grave there in the dark by the mercy of the whole. I might have lain, lashed to a cot and aching for escape -for life desires life, breath burns only for breath- having earned the emptiness of that insufferable pit, fighting for it yet. But sick unto death with that long agony of living and breathing without meaningful purpose, the blade might split my skin and I would despair only of my own acceptance of this most deservéd fate.

It's 2am and I'm biking back from a dual surprise birthday party that wasn't really a surprise for anyone. Fog has settled in around this tiny college town that shuts down around midnight, save for the parties; pockets of light the fog scatters and noise the fog mutes. I shake out my hair in the hopes that it will warm my ears. Dripping tree limbs, covered in condensation from the fog, create patterns of wet and dry on the pavement the reverse of those left by a brief rain. It is quiet and the light on my bike illuminates every droplet of water in its path. Around others, I am extroverted, obnoxious and occasionally even fun but, in truth, I need these moments of evanescent quiet on my bike, hopping curbs, passing everything by, stretching my legs and having no one to talk to. It is in these moments that I create myself. Be present, I remind myself as I ride under the fog-spawned halo of a streetlight. It is a mantra I picked up from a Zen Buddhist to keep from losing myself in thought; do not ignore the beauty around you, be present. And for even a moment, I am.

Full conjugation or why I can't conjugate with you in public.