clasped at necklines embraced
we speak in tongues to express tenderness
as memories perform an illusion of loss
if we watch we learn and heal when we feel
the universe is singing this to us
a liminal space respectfully observed
do you notice that split-second pause after exhale
or how quiet rushes consciousness to expand
it’s also true that none of my heroes claim success
revise what can be made useful tomorrow
“the fact that these things are not formulaic means the possibilities are real”
— Sharon Salzberg
our land no longer provides honey
bloated on milk, we seek new
we explore edges of distant formations
a remote past when the sun burned outward
flares reached us as freckles and light’s ease
another kind of mastery and extension of reflection
the sun went dark when it could no longer perform
release undulate fornicate rewind redo
burn then take the ashes and digest their precision
such erudition is the faint route
returning to influence confirms proximity
waking up to darkness pauses feelings of safety
a bitter fragility of posture and circumstance
we fall asleep oblivious and discern love as temporary
forgetting how blue skies kiss fading moonlight
those who stay philosophic and curious are reborn
thoughts released are worth more than when preserved
I gather myself in folds and layers; heaven is here, today
We’ll let you guys prophesy
We gon’ see the future first
— Frank Ocean, Nikes
our houses red-tagged fragile
a state of taking up too much space
an absurd strangled feeling
broken into atomic structures
we forget the stars survive above
business owned is personal
witness morning’s stillness
how the days pull forward
swallowing quiet movement
“you might as well answer the door, my child, the truth is knocking.” — Lucille Clifton
The hand’s sensitive intelligence…
a found erotic reference
dangerous as a nation divided;
beggars and thieves and other.
Whispering cacophonous choruses
our fears spill into codes.
A new kind of Reconstruction
stumbling into mosaic beauty.
He said, the issue is not opportunity,
while we stay flat footed—even in heels.
Summer jackets hide shame.
In that way, life is easy.
What is beneath the surface begs.
It howls.
Remaining grounded has a sinister side,
a backlash by way of prophetic referent.
Dystopia in real time is not like the movies. We’ve digested so much spectacular violence we know no tender alternatives. Fighting feels so good. The characters we play on screen form dead weight on the streets and sink us in our bedrooms.
Persistence is extractive.
As surf buries smoothed rock, we turn the calendar page to July and spread like picnics under cloudless skies. Our flesh a moral document scrolling beyond politicized reach. After all, the bottom line is always evolving.
Sea levels have always been inconsistent.
Ideological battles are taken for granted outside a schema of pursuit. This adoration, a relationship of necessity, remains prone. A curious posture. Abuse is normal. Its purpose is to feel. Subtly is weaponized.
Perceived as commodities, we trade.
Auspicious tensions act as purifiers for taste, a basic sensation. Our judgements psychic protection. Didactic fracturing agitates into frothy comfort. Perceptions gain value for their ahistorical subjectivity.
Aspirational dissent is the chorus and the bridge to ——
If we listen carefully, joy is elegance reproducing itself into near future referential fits and starts. Inspiration is a slow bleed. Murmuring into abruptions delightful as salt penetrating unhealed wounds. An intimacy as ancient and poetic as opiates or fire.
Cache Culture 