Here's something that isn't Whitman.

Empty yourself: pour out every drop of your nectar
and let the world drink it. Save it for no one.
A full cup cannot be refilled.
A full cup has no purpose.

Blank pages are spittoons for the blood-filled saliva of the misunderstood,
Bedpans for the invalid discontent.
Or clear glass for the warmed-breath to loan their warmth
and use their pure fingers as pens,
scribbling vagrant art.
But today we will empty our bedpans and exhale a new permanence.

We can fly a kite in a lightning storm, but we can't stop this thing from what it's gonna be. Silly girl, that's just the way it is. How atoms turn into planets eventually.


A melody with nothing attached, like a thought without words to share it,
That's how sunrises happen in this mortal desert.
Two claps and the brink of dawn.

There is a world beneath our lessons or perhaps above them
in which we are still animals, but it is now forgotten,
drowned underneath the voices telling us to re-think.

For a brief second, I did not have to ask
because I knew that our hands are working
some deep magic from the forgotten lessons we never had to learn.

[Please save me.]

Sometimes I have dreams about the too-young woman, pressing her baby to her breast under a thick jacket, praying the baby doesn't make a sound. Letting her hands fall into practiced poses, aligning her spine to the lines she saw thousands of times as a child, removing the fire from her eyes. Telling the guard she's "just running an errand." Her feeling the breath and blood come back to her after he, in an act inexplicable to one who does not understand it, lets her go on, even though he was instructed to apprehend anyone he saw... why did he trust her?

"anything is possible while we exist."

"we'll get through this together."

I'm so glad we can work together when we're at our limits. It's the most wonderful feeling ever.

I'm sure you just fell asleep, but you know I can't help but worry.

I hope you see me in a dream tonight :) You're wonderful.