CPoetry

love is a toddler whom turns its back on fear and trust-falls down a slide sliding backwards--- with an unequivocal faith another form of itself will be there to catch it in its arms at the end of the drop off. ::: it is the icy, hypothermic chill and the pasty filth of blendered dead-leaf soil on a late winter day after a night's rain; letting go of control. ~ while you shiver, look up. through the scum on your eyes, you will see buds growing on the trees; you will feel a hand cover your heart which makes you feel relief; the hand of Spring in you. ::: the age-crevasses of experience in his grease-scarred hands guillotine red peppers. it is the only sound in the room before i ask my grandpa how he forgave grandma when she saw another man with him. he looks up---a green pepper spares it life. once his eyes decide to tell me he moves them across the counter top and smiles. "well, y

when we step over the barbed wire wall of others' defenses, we will see one of three outcomes: a person whom was loved too much. a person whom was loved too little. and a person whom was one of the latter yet prefers, presently, to love with a loving that satisfies all previous deprivations, estranges all excess, and concludes with a summation that reaches an imperfect-perfect equilibrium towards oneself and others. ::: no matter how often i try to deprecate You from my dreams---or in a chapel. or under a tree---or riding on the subway--- just before i sleep... You remind me prayers are thoughts and love has absolutely nothing to do with worshipping from the mind and absolutely everything to do with worshipping from the heart.      You say,       Love, you risk too much      closing your heart on me. ::: i am ordinarily washing the dishes when Chet Baker Sings, and time after time y

the woman said to the pairs of eyes standing around her, I am quite excited for this travel. My clothes are new, my satchel is full, and my shoes are taut and unweathered. can't we accompany you? asked one of the eyes. I am afraid you cannot. You are all nomads. I, however, am an explorer. There is a difference, and I cannot say how one becomes an explorer. whilst the eyes looked around dejected and angry, a young pair of eyes without shoes, hung filthy clothes, and a deprived stomach, moved her hand quietly over her heart. seeing this action, the explorer smiled at the young eyes from the corner of her mouth, sat up, and turned to a new direction to travel. she announced confidently, Do not worry! Some of you will...and have realized... how to truly explore. ::: after magnifying the wings of a butterfly one day, a biochemist nearly lost her head at what she saw; the pigments were segmented into parts. not like feathers, not like