You dwell around us,

In secret,

In open.

Behind these closed shades, tinted windows, and dry walls,

Mopping floors with your tender brush.

Shattering mirrors with your cold hush.

-

Show your face!

Coward.

-

Your life in desolation, I pity you not.

Won’t you share yourself with the rest of us?

Allow scrutiny, critique, discernment. Empathy.  Love.

Or no? Simply fester and torment in solitude.

We serve solutions, but you return too dominating.

Advantage out.

-

You live, you flourish!

You are real.

In every crack of the voice,

In each skin constricting chill.

In isolation, with us, your might presses.

-

But halt!

We need not ask of you your power-pillaged permission.

Your paltry significance is smashed.

For the choice is ours,

To be more than conquerors,

In all we encounter.

We have reign, fortified!

-

Yes, this heartache lives.

And in the like, so do we,

-

With the diamond blade of an almighty promise.

-

Gypsy

9/30/12

I remember shots, without a chaser…

1 was to Valentine’s day, tradition, and remembrance

2 was to chadors, simply put

3 was to the Jeremys, to find what they are looking for

4 was to Chad, hypothetically

5 was to ex-’s and terrible gifts

6 was to the near future, for excitement and rickety roller-coaster’s

7 was to my parents, and their anniversary on this 14^th

8 was to Jacuzzis, cold sheets, and empty apartments

9 was to poesia y mas oso negro

-Typsy

What will I toast to this year? Whitney without a doubt.

.

.

.

The Glass-

Walking and walking

Where to? And, Where from?

Two questions wrapped around one answer: Her

Where is she?

Marching with purpose but lacking direction

The gears in his watch do not turn

He has no time but soon feels-

Urgency in his steps, in his beats

Swift and darting, he picks up tempo

His eyes are searching, scanning frenetically

He is running after his heart which has pulled away

He can’t capture her scent

He knows if he could just smell her, it would lead him

Now his lungs are leaving him behind as well

His legs are violence

His will, allied with his desperation, is at war against his muscles

His body burns and expands, compresses and ignites

He falters and staggers

His respiration returns to him, but he is not resting

Focusing his vision near and far, under and over, in light and darkness, He will not abandon her

Walking and walking

Turning and turning

Expecting

He rounds to the right and he sees her

Clearly defined

And she sees him, standing

He runs to her but can’t

There are two panes of glass separating the man and woman

Thick glass. Cold and clean. Almost invisible.

The couple is separated by feet, close enough to merely tease

He looks at her with eyes wider than any she has seen

He is stunned with anticipation

Shaking off the confusion, he tries to reach her

.        .         . Rock solid. Could have been diamond

He screams and strikes at the glass; she can’t hear him

And he can’t smell her

They mirror each other’s movements

The glass is puzzling and they feel it out anxiously to try to solve it

He starts to panic, but through the glass he sees her

She is standing, looking at him

Her eyes bear a want, while her body is calm

He wipes the little bit of blood from his knuckles and spittle from his shouts off the glass with his disheveled sleeve

And he can see her better, view her

He sees her body and her face only in his peripheral

Locked in her eyes

Eyes that convey so much-

An assortment of conflicting ideas, of beauty and terror, lies and truth, patience and dread, and much more, that he couldn’t put a word to

These abstractions were all encapsulated

Encompassed by a blanket of the only thing that could hold their sheer weight

He saw it in her eyes-

And she saw it in his- Love

It was a beam stretching from his lens to hers that you could almost touch

And it warmed them as they stood quiet, for quite some time

It seemed to cut through the cold windows separating the two

But they remained behind the glass

Peering into one another

Staring and Staring

-Typsy: 11/18/11

A vibrant pedaled flower I know of, in story and in thought.

More established and steadfast than its sprout, yet still blossoming and outstretching its grace.

Foretold by many, I can only begin to search for you, entranced by their affirmation.

I dream of your elegance.

-

………………………

-

A mountain I have grappled with to reach this summit, and I have feebly flopped onto this peak.

Other climbs had visible crests from their base, but none as worthwhile.

As if eyes beyond necessity, I can see your spectacle rising from the earth.

And I sit. I gaze, oh I gaze. Unto your flourishing brilliance, to your very roots.

Only the matchless can survive at such a climate.

-

The stories and dreams race my thoughts, all coming to cognizance.

I swiftly and foolishly reach to grasp you, to claim the ascent’s ultimate fortune,

But has caution taught me nothing?

-

Inherently, the thorns safeguarding your precious pedicel pierce my eager love.

Startled, I suddenly slip from this peak, and tumble toward tragedy.

The sudden descent is tumultuous, but not monumental.

-

And only by curse, the summit where you remain rooted is still in sight.

Not only, but your stunning image has now seized my every open thought.

Captured by what lies atop, and enlightened to nothing less.

-

…………………….

 -

I fight this curse, bestowed upon my every failed ascent.

Rose, growing weary of my ever persistent attempts.

And all I can offer is my confession, my apology,

For finding your lustrous, transcendent beauty,

Rose.

-

-Gypsy

All the suspense

That we’ve created

Now its wasted

And we can’t change it

The beginning to the ending

I find myself remembering

-Emery

This crutch. So sensitive to the touch

Its looks aren’t much, but it is as such, a crutch

-

Yet still I please, and appease, with such ease

Such negligence, such disease

-

I acknowledge your existence,

And smell your persistence,

But your glaring havoc

Receives no resistance 

-

Your chains, so daunting

Your pains… so haunting

-

I bow to your commandment,

But still, the choice of confinement

Is mine.

-

This crutch. This disease.

I lean. I please.

-

To taste your defeat, and digest the cool breeze of freedom.

-Gypsy

Missed Approach Monica-

Pilot Log: Day 41-

We are going down in the clouds, but 1800’ is decision altitude girl, and you are Pilot in Command. Continue or go missed approach is up to you, but I can’t stay in this hold forever. Fuel is running low, and there are other airports to land at with lower minimums.

Pilot Log: Day 108-

            So there were no lights in sight, no threshold, no numbers. I don’t know why I couldn’t see the signs. Poor planning on my part? Get-there-itus sank in.  I just wanted to land. To be safe, but poor AMD on my part. We are both on the ground now at different gravel strips, but I suppose we still had our fun in the clouds.

“In the Valley”

Here is man, on sand he stands

Wandering forlorn in the desert

Scorching heat, his burning feet

He crawls in search of reprieve

5          Though he walks through the valley, lost in deaths alley

But death does not pity him with shade

            If he could only let, just a single drop of sweat, yet

His body and soul desiccate

For forty years, he lived greatest fears

10        Cursed in the wilderness

The worst was neither the thirst, nor the torrid wind’s burst

            But the desolation of loneliness

            Yes the heat was without spite, and the thirst he could fight

            But separated, his spirit fade

15        Finally he breaks, his weak voice shakes

And he receives an answer to his cries

“You are never alone.” Even as the white sun drones, this message-

chills his bones

And he believes

            He searches more, the desert for

20        Solace, and is delivered

Eventually finding a lush humid garden, a home without pardon

The deep, deep waters of oasis

Now, his days he will drink his body and soul to the brink

            In the stream of life

25        But even still, this foolish man will wander downhill

Losing his way in the west

To chase mirages, of four car garages

Arrogance deserves no pity

            Here is man, on sand he stands

30        But never alone in the desert

My Hand at Spoken Word with written to follow.

That Feelin’-

A ten foot wave is

A Crush

Is terrifying

And you are not yet Kelly Slater,

Cue the slow motion, right?

But now, with your feet slipping and arms flailing

You flip the shutoff valve to your respiratory system

Sucking hard in the salt air, because

You are going under

And you are not yet freefalling

You sit in an open door, one foot dangling 14,000 feet above the ground

Wearing a grown man as a backpack

And that backpack starts counting down

Hunching you forward, just so you can see how far you have to fall

 And you are not yet safe in the dark Ciné Capri,

Where silence isn’t awkward

You have just introduced yourself, and the silence is

…very awkward

You have just parked your car and it is 6,000 heartbeats from the curb to her door

And it builds

And it grows from deep within your chest

Like a sneeze, you feel it coming

It consumes your thoughts, and you daydream to a time of stability

But where is the excitement in that?

Where is the Rush-Where is the Crush?

The hard part is not over but the smoke will evanesce before you know it

So my friends embrace this time

Trap it in your lungs, in your memories

Air guitar like you know what you are doing because

There are 50 things like it, but nothing with that exact same feelin’

-Typsy

Manzanita-

Once, you were the apple of my eye

I delighted in your orchard, with sun and shade and rain

Together we were alone. Organic

Now, you and I have changed as the seasons have changed

And you have ripened, more alluring than I recall

I fall back on the memories

The words…the feelings…the security…the warmth…the touch…the solace

The taste of you, my heart waters

I sink my teeth into you

What is this?

Mush, Brown, Rot

Your makeup, your very skin, and even the gleam in your eye has been dusted on,

Dropped from a bi-plane over the Mid-West

New stories and new habits reveal a thin layer of pesticide on your red delicious lips

I would rather not know the truth of what I am eating

To forget the sour past, that you have been picked, stem severed

That you have touched and been touched

You are no longer mine

-Typsy