In a full room

I sit by your side

till you set your hands on

my shoulders, and I relax

and indulge in the pressure of

your arms pulling me back against you

Leaned back without fear

and there was a feeling

unidentified till morn

of comfort, or pleasure, of you

giving in to the presence of me.

Disregarded

the averse to you

and me, we had not yet

embraced those sensations which

cause our agitation to cease,

In the presence of one another.

Silk-I felt it then

Against my back, my cheek,

my distress melting into

Nothing- comfort, the feeling here

of peace with who we are, you and I.

But I'll let this stand

- This is just a dream.

I know my place

But:

I worry if I don't try to drive

even if it means I crash and burn

I will be leaving the embers to burn

to ashes all that remains in this shell

an egg that upon cracking will

float off on a breeze.

Chicks are given beaks so that

they can crack their own shells

from the inside OUT into the world

A self determination that allows

the pheonix to blossom up again stronger

after one more self destruction.

If I do not crash (crack) myself

how can the flare of light come

as I push my beak out of my shell

to take in life anew?

Ode to Pittsburgh

I think Pittsburgh is beautiful.

I see in it a visualization of the struggle

of man versus nature and nature versus man

the urban decay at odds with

a more natural entropy

The steel and concrete

rusting and crumbling in the grips of a natural world

that wants to take it back.

In the little nooks and valleys

the abandoned children of industrialization sit

the aged metal as red now as the bricks

of the homes that once housed their blood

and now house the ferocity of LIFE

once abandoned, thriving

under even the least hospitable eaves.

I would say that this is a morbid love song.

but instead of the talk of death in life

and life in death

between two lovers as emotionally entwined

as the rust and root of this city

as the living things flourish unexpectedly

in the ruins of our pasts.

In the crevasses are hidden awaY

the skeletons of our (industrial) revolutions

safely out of mind of the eye of progress.

The victorian edwardian Industr-ian fingers

twisting through the trees that were once shaved

bald from the hills,

when the dirty coal chimnies smoked and raked the sky.

Traces of the old liveliness-

The culture and BREATH of our ancestors-

in the crawling brickwork and tiling

and the decaying steps

that once guided our fathers weary feet back home.

Our shared history, sometimes ignored or forgotten

by the very life that thrives

in it's place.

Maybe you need a special appreciation

for decay- but also an equal passion

for life- to hear the adoration in my voice.

For in every begining

every striving and thriving

there is the traces of our endings

of the sweat and tears

and blood shed on the tracks

of our ever onward progression.

And in every building overtaken

by weeds and youths

the windows shattered or the bricks decayed

is the stimulous for growth

in the same forces we decry today

as destruction, but

will laud tomorrow as our salvation.

When I fell in love with Pittsburgh

it wasn't for the shining lights

or the memories of being held there

so joyous I dared not breathe-

It was that in every corner

I could not help but see

LIFE and DETERMINATION

arriving from under our cracks.

There are no words to describe this driving light

as each moment of study and contemplation

bares more of my soul-

do not tell me because of my birth I am less filled with this light

That I do not know my own soul

or that my devotion is less.

What but devotion can lift my soul in song

in buzzing and passion and change

with each learning?

When the words of my soul flow out my mouth,

they flow with as true a force as any other's devotion

and set to flare the spark within me.

Why then is there doubt as to the motivations of my heart?

Can they not see the glowing of joy that radiates from my soul

As I sing beside them?

Or is it, perhaps, that my mother's path was not the same as my own

that the blood of her womb did not spark this light

through so rich a heritage?

When I sing with this tongue the words of my soul, do not doubt them;

When I speak, do not assume I speak them lightly;

When I dance, do not assume superficiality;

When I ask, do not wait until you too see my soul glowing

before you weigh my ferver as more than a feather's press;

I assure you, you wil see it shortly.

Tighter strung than a cat gut violin

high wire short cuts

undercutting the over extensions of my

str-etch

over trouble waters

When my insecurities take their hold

The state of not knowing or defining

becomes fear that I am not enough

for the world to know;

That my desire to shout from the climax

of the peak will never be fufilled,

and instead I will find myself in a subterranean

marine cavern

My mouth opening to shout my being

and instead muffled by the fetid water

of not knowing if to speak is to sentance myself

to never.

I felt a blush rush up

and my fingers curled around my bottle

the soda level raising by degrees

And nearing the brim before I could put it aside

My palms wet

and slickening;

The cold emanating from the thin window pane-

tendrils raising chilled bumps cross my neck

Shoulders Collarbone

Wrapping round my arms

like Sheba's bejeweled armlets-

feels for them

but unable to ice the heat they find there;

Reactive my neck tightens into a pleasant knot

of the laces that run up my spine

corsetting this into my body

and causing my back to conform

to the tightening arch

of their guide;

A drumming started in my neck

carotid artery dancing to the rhythm

of my heart beat as I inhale through my nose

the chill of empty air

and loneliness.

And because the cause is absent

(not lending warmth

or shielding the chill)

I write.