And my rage unfurls, “No.”

Darkening my soul

In Bed with him

I don’t need to read my poetry publish my poetry

Except to feel my beauty/pain of my pain/beauty again

Globes - Phil

I drive by his house again

It’s a good thing I checked Instagram while I was driving aimlessly so I could see where you would be

That there would be a poetry reading 7 miles away

So I could take my mind off you

Black soul

like a Pollock or a Van Gogh or a Klimt or a Matisse

in the 412 gallery on 53rd street. 

You’re put together, with such grace and such thought,

by none but an artist’s work. 

By your own hand, you’d be sticky yet, hadn’t figured out how to dry the paint;

a broken sculpture, hadn’t stuck the pieces together quite right. 

And yet, because you are sculpted by another, Higher --

Powerful, you shine, 

Speak Truths. 

Your evil side shadowed by all wonderful hues --

Golden skin, reddening cheeks, caramel dripping from your eyes.   

play the suspension strings of the bridge off Chambers and Park Row. 

You dance the city’s skyscrapers with your fingers, 

and sing its vibrations. 

Dreams hold you in a cloud above the rest of us, 

and you ache from the pulling in both directions - 

your heart up this way, your body down that. 

The frequencies, they rattle in a multi-rhythm in your chest.

In sleep your body reminds itself of its purpose: 

to take us to the place your soul lives / Bring it to us. 

It is hard to wake from this. 

The only pathway in either direction is your song. 

Finish it. 

And remember that time 

doesn’t exist in the cloud-world.

We’re young forever like the pact we made at 18. 

Music rules our bones and pulses our blood. 

Refine it. 

Live and breathe your imagined things into life. 

Bring new.