Going to a concert is like being put in an oven.

In the beginning you are a raw, cold participant of the energy around you and by the end you've become solidified in the absorption of words, music, and movement.

The unleashing of an artist's confession is the vulnerable heat that cements my own internal proteins.

And when the concert is over and the oven door opens, I'm still cooking by the carryover heat.

.

the tiny life saver that
is called a space heater
whores its stores of
attractive energy in
front of my toes,
and just as I hoard
its offering
with a blanket,
it shouts
do not cover
but whispers
do not be coy.




.

geometree

one day I caught a virgin leaf
that sidled into my hand
like a sheet of gold and
wondered why me?
the rest could be free
instead of causing grief

I'll turn them upside down
in raked piles to image
new boughs across the horizon
and make the center my home
where instead; hands stand and
toes curl into sky roots.

the playground is my classroom
full of falling kids and flashes
of symmetry which somersault
across tessellating arms.
all the proofs I need are cracked smiles
and a breath of fresh air.




.

catharsis

catalpa beans dangle around me
like a head scratcher on standby.
brown and shriveled though they are,
the shells contain invested interests:
little bombs wait to drop on itchy
scalps offering release from
escalating awareness.