Based on a memory
let it happen to you,
was how we made our
But joy is not the word,
neither are all the
other words that to us mean joy.
What we felt
.something as human as skin and
as strange as a
flower d r i f t i n g through space.
what we felt
I remember the sun. I remember:
open-eyed dreams, which infect
like a bleach
that dissolves the stains on our
wipes them away
as sunshine sucks in darkness, as freedom floats
on wind. Yellow air, sun-colored dust, a haze
through which I see you in my memory.
I want it back.
I want nothing but myself and you.
I want an empty world.
I want a world empty of all things but the sun
and youth and freedom and yellow dust and
dreams and whatever word describes the thing
that is not joy.
Written at 11:28 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, while listening to classical music and nearly dying of thirst.