Emily, your white dress

looks so lonely

in the middle of the night,

like a patch of snow,

not ready to burn

a hole out of heaven.

I fold your translucent soul,

like folding a letter from home.

The land a giant corpse,

I trudge across the margin

of every single silent wound.

Emily, I’m waiting for my Godot

on a rainy summer day

where God feels like crying,

and I want to bless him.

My Emily Dickinson

is never quiet in a bookstore.

all the written tears have a

discount in the sale of ink:

Remembering her having more

moons than my stones.

removing a fairer night

that day to edit her

white dress and white death.

Enclosing her in the eternity

of dashes – here.

Dwell – Dwell: here.

My Ms. 1800s, dwell, dwell,

Before X was X, we learned to carry things. Atlas humping the Sky, limbs in the shape of “X”. He practiced the gesture to design Universe, to become the barrier for mother land and father sky to lock lips. He solidified into static strokes nailed into the ground, with lighting surging in his bones. Then the Greeks borrowed “X” from the Phoenician letter around 900 B.C., samekh meaning “fish”, and gave it a new name - Chi denoting the sound “S”. Fish carries ocean in its scales as well. We are always seeking languages to tell the way we are carrying things in the vast empty wasteland. That’s what X is all about.

My Minotaur, how many torches

Do you spend to pass the night,

To find your own hands?

Dwelling like spider cob, a thousand road

To escape, to die, to become hero.

Only one tunnel for waiting.

& You have no choice,

For the most beautiful Ariadne

Weaved this maze

Out of her blessed ball of wool.

His sky concise,
Verbs as clean as blood.
Kissed by a train
Along the journey
To the only place
Named after mountain and sea.
Wish I could undo
Your bones from the land.
But I can’t.
I stand there to witness
Your saddest poems.
I stand there to become
Red wheels, white forest.

As I said onto you, as

I’m always

Bleeding:

We just named yet another

Sun after a winter

With our harsh tears.

I prayed for you and prayed

For storms,

March is a good time to practice pain.

But one thing for sure we all

Have names

And a composition written

With/out blood.

Abusively artistically we attended our secretive sleeps.

Bored with automated glory. So let us

Carve our blood and water into sins.

Defeated desires through which we limp

Enlighted our hands to be reduced to clean

Flinch. Simply we kill &

Grasp on this life so wobbly. Tight. Being

Haunted is what is means to be alive.

4. Scribbled secret for poetry as deep as you get drunk outside

7. listening want to blow the mind of yr notebooks

6. No time. what will find its own mind?

everything, open, visions of exactly. Try “never”. 1

9. Be crazy from the bottom of bottomless own joy

But and wild

8. Write what you want that you feel Be in love with yr life