warrenty of your exsistence

You exist
in this space
beside me.

a warm 2 and a half foot
by six foot
existence;

a warm circumference left
when you get up.

I trust
that you still exist 
when you are not beside me,
a child learning peek-a-boo
can guess about the same.

But is more comforting to think
for a time

that you do not exist

with out me there--
without my
permission.


Who are you
when not with me?
you are a different person-- ingauging
in different
relationships,
different observances;
different thoughts.

with out me.

this is when
idenity
and relationship
come to mean
separate things.

When I am
a parcel
of yours;
of you,
and you are a parcel,
of mine;
of me.

So I am
AFRAID
--there, I said it--
of losing what I have
of you.

But isn't it truth
that we never have someone's heart?
It is just on loan, a undefined time limit of ocupation?

Isn't it Truth
that we always have someone's heart?
a gift, with warranty, of an undefined limit?

Truth is, I have no warenty
on our hearts
We have no
loan.

Trust.
and love.
and faith.

these three remain.

a prayer

what will I do with life.

Stuck between want of meaning,
of doing good,

and finding meaning,
finding good

in all things.

but it is not in all things.

what do i want
to do

what will i do

with the rest
of life.

                                       I am sick of shallow people

                                       I am sick
 sick of the shallow
of myself.

Problem:
              i find most joy
              in what may be considered
                                                       the shallow
                                                        the hallow--
or do i?


color.
form.
order.
composition.

typography.
I want to make things
look good
for those who do good.
I want my designs
to be informed
by informing
myself
with what is done--

I want goodness
I want truth
I want these to create
Beauty.

how do i use
     a passion
for a good?

or, sometimes it seems,
more importantly,
how do you
get paid for good?

Idealist.



what is worth while?

goals-- dreams.
Aaron has those, not me.

what do I want to do?
I know what i want to be doing,
not what I want to do.





I want to ask questions












and never stop.

turn out like a spout--
dreams--
splatter, smattered, like batter, onto floor
concrete
the street
cold-- oiled, bold.

too big for me
to shurg on,
to keep buttontoned.
to tight
to breathe
to keep zipped,
so i shed it to the floor--

too much
I fear
is near-- falling out,
oh, doubt--
who am I?
Where am I?

Shout.

now count
the minutes you spend,
the hours, like towers, building
till gone and dead
is your oppertunity
to improve your imunity
to this world
to this

in action.

become raidoactive,

your dreams,

till it seems you'll burst with potential
instead of consequential

death
of self-- instead

die by never giving into the lie--

become.

then, it will be done.

diluted deed

what do you do
when you must protect
self?

when you need 
to be
good
strong
whole--

it becomes hard
to accept
your wrongs
weakness
brokeness--

hard
to change

because
it it is hard
to see.

"the light came into the darkness, but the darkness did not comprehend it,"

yes, forgiveness
is hard
to comprehend.

but you
seek the good in me
even though
it seems
you seek out the worst
bring out
the worst

challenge me.



really, you just venture down paths
no one else does
kicking sacred stones
that no one
but those
who sought to put pain
inside
have riled up,
leaving dust to settle on the matter.

like any slum lord,
I know where my dust settles.
best to be left unkept

than to see
the mess i've made.
 

unbrushed teeth

hands tied
by apathy
behind my back.

lethargic shreds of things
never done,
meant to do,
did
lay waste-
stain against name,
against faith.

what can one do
who cannot
push herself

out of bed?

Drifter

I am the drifter

 the  lone (wo)man

the flake on which

Whoville stands.

I am the drifter,

one kicked up like dust

that when settled on glass

protects vision's trust. 

I am the drifter

the renegade bag

who tears from backseats

 finding bushes that snag.

I am the drifter,

the one who knows

many

and few

and this person

who is my own.

I am the drifter

looking over the moor

swaying with lantern

as I rest these oars.

I am the drifter

the dried and the wet--

the leaves and grass clipping, 

the petal that went.

I know no one location--

no one home for eye--

a steady comfort of constant supply,

seeking families far and near to enter in

to laugh, be filled, depart, and return

to enter in.

the one who holds,  but lets grasp slip

who some call by name

and even fewer miss.

the one who catches glance before running past

whom with moments you share

that may or may not last.

I am the drifter 

who seeks to be seen

and also to hide--

hold and deny

O, the drifter, 

am I?

Now I Might Observe Silent Assurance

it makes me wretch inside
to see "dear" addressed to you
to hear her say,
in type,
"your love is to heavy,"

no wrong have you done.
you need someone to love.

you
chose me.

and i ran- pushed

you away.

"your love is to heavy,"
no-- not from me.

I was too scared
of being left

of being unhappy

till my fears fell through
cut to truth--
became reality.

no longer do i pretend i can Know you-

you do not know yourself,

or,

do you?


can anyone know a person
when we are
constant
change?