stonehart

I forgot how to speak. Her tongue, weak as a newborn lamb, struggled under the syllables, the consonants, the vowels, for me. I wanted to tell her so many things, but each time, I opened my mouth to confess, I could not. I formed the letters with her, aping as much as I prayed, hoping for the next time, the next heartbeat, I could tell her, I was dying to tell her, everything. In the beginning I recited the best. I waxed, I waned, I was the perfect liar. Everything could be explained. Doubts were for fickle, insecure plebeians. I was emperor, king on high, of her lies. I lied, until even I, began to believe it. And w

Though soft, gentile labors; back pressed deep, huddled, worrying over all that is, all that could be, a shudder. There is darkness here. A shadow of shallow doubt--- in the stark black and white and red a moan of question. Slick with sweat, fear, and uncertainty, there is a thin veil into unknown dark pastures where we begin and unravel. A book turns, pulling leaflets, of snow-colored teacups, out of the ground, exposing. Different truths. In her arms, lies the world. Tired from the strain the effort of slithering before God too much. In the egg-shell mucus drying on the skin, the world smiles a wordless, to

when he asked me how i wanted him to build the house, i answered him truthfully. i said i wanted the pillars to be made of pages from every book ever written, curled in on themselves until they could hold a roman arch. pour words, strong and weak, into the earth instead of cement- let it be flexible to adapt to pressure. build the walls from the ground up through prose supporting the bricks layered by memories forged along the path we took to arrive at eden. tilt poems into pyramids above our heads, ceilings just high enough to be within earshot of every laugh we'll ever make. empty emotions into a template of a window and slide it i