to the people i love:

i will tell you something:
i will tell you of what i am filled,
or full, overflowing, brim spilling,
toppling, i will not explain
but i will tell you i am
unable to stand up. you are not
bringing me down but we are
lying down and fortified
against the cold. and i am
rambling and continuing on
and not stopping and i
cannot stop.
and to be honest i
do not want to stop.
i will overflow for as long
and i am living and able
to sleep and feel
our dreams merge.

_______

we have been down
and back again, and now
we have kicked down history
which stands, flattened,
beneath our traveling feet.
our feet speak. they move forward.
they move as quickly
as our minds; the rest of us
cannot keep up.
we are making history
and forgetting history.
we cannot keep up
and yet we will.

_______

and perhaps it is enough
that you have stepped outside
this california dream
and immersed yourself
in a midwestern abyss,
overworked bliss, city
of green.
and it is not enough
that we are not shivering
on back porches, shifting
sweet smoke from our lips
to the air, mixing it
with the cloudy white breath
of cold in which we are engulfed.
letters and watercolours
nearly do the trick
[whatever that is];
and once december
rolls its sweet, icy belly
in this mid-hemisphered
valley, once it
sniffs its chill around
and clings to our scarves and coats,
once all this,
you will fly back into town
and, once again, depart.

_____

little one, you grow smaller
with each beautifully rendered
picture i see. your distance
grows farther though you have lived
in your sprawling city
since i last saw you--
smaller, farther. perhaps
these adjectives belong together,
sweetly embracing like lovers,
like you and your lover,
heads buried in another's hair
or shoulder,
clinging, blinded, lustful,
and in love.
yet i have forced myself into comfort.
you will find your place
without my worry.