Blood Knows

play the part of my favorite play
I feel the audio and all its waves
Nobody loves a hid­den face
So let it just fade away
I can’t live this part that stays away
Haunt­ed down that face
Oh, that face
Those sub­tle rewards
Strike gen­tly chords, hmm
It’s com­ing down for me this way
And com­fort you and feel this
It’s com­ing from a heat­ed place
This place that means it’s all there
It’s com­ing down for me this way
And com­fort you and feel this
Fol­low that line down that S sub­way
The stairs are beau­ty and I know it fades
Let’s not cave into this feel­ing
Cause we wan­na be right here
Hold a part that we just made
Hmm, let your voice go
Just put your feet up on that pil­low
Just let your blood know
Let your blood go
Just hold your breath
Just hold my waist
Just hold my waist (ooh)
Just hold my waist
It’s com­ing down for me this way
And com­fort you then feel this
It’s com­ing from a heat­ed place
This place that means it’s all there
It’s com­ing down for me this way
And com­fort you and feel this
It’s com­ing down for me this way
And com­fort you and feel this
It’s com­ing from a heat­ed place
This place that means it’s all there

Time

To every­thing (turn, turn, turn)
There is a sea­son (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every pur­pose, under heav­en
A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep
To every­thing (turn, turn, turn)
There is a sea­son (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every pur­pose, under heav­en
A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones, a time to gath­er stones togeth­er
To every­thing (turn, turn, turn)
There is a sea­son (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every pur­pose, under heav­en
A time of love, a time of hate
A time of war, a time of peace
A time
-The Byrds

This is the song for my day, it’s a time­less piece.

Some­times, old stuff is new again. And usu­al­ly these ele­ments from yes­ter­day haunt me with their beau­ty and secret sad­ness.

Let­ter to poets from stranger places

This one goes out to those
crazy rad­i­cals, and those lazy in bed
days off you decid­ed to bring your A game
after a night of Net­flix and that inex­pen­sive bot­tle of red

the way you write, the ink that bleeds
life on paper, the bet­ter parts and the
fleet­ing nanosec­onds we have in
detail­ing our way­ward thoughts

You have an oblig­a­tion
to take focus off of your­self
because your self pity par­ty­ing
is only beau­ti­ful to you, and you alone

we need to chan­nel the ennui
in a spin of light and weavers of those
pre­cious times we
lived for moments how we ought to

you are…
the rain droplets out­side my win­dow
on a day when win­ter secret­ly shift­ed
to a spring of much love­mak­ing

I watch as oth­er poets
are dis­cov­er­ing the rea­sons and the raisin d’etre
of their craft
poet­ry as prayers

or are our prayers our poet­ry ?
do they instill light and sanc­ti­fy the thought life ?
are they heav­i­ly guard­ed works of art that inspires
hid­den depths in us, and our secret long­ings ?

Yes and yes and yes, you sit­ting in the cathe­dral pews
frol­ick­ing in shad­ows and bask­ing in aure­ate ethe­re­al­ness
I see your con­found­ing word­play offer­ings
that places twist­ed grins on many faces

then there’s the name­less café drifter poet
who rap a tap tap’s on his/​her Mac­Book pro
over five dol­lar lattes and mak­ing the barista
stay an extra 10 min­utes past clos­ing hour

who was I then, but all and none of these ?
a poet who drank exces­sive­ly of decent wines
and wrote like a Kore­an dra­ma action star
from some­place very close, yet so far
so good