Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance,
and there is only the dance.

T. S. ELIOT


Who knew life could be altered by Rufus Wainwright? Who knew that it could be changed by a Starbucks cup, for that matter? Idle fingers rubbing on styrophom and the crystalized leaks of liquid, coming to a precipice on the garamond print: "absolved by light, we go on". Reconciled by dawn. Absolution, that ineffable concept, grasped only by the break of brilliance on horizon. Truth be told, I don't remember the last sunrise I saw. I miss it, right now, I miss it like I miss being whole.
I talked to that girl today, the one with the Athena gray-eyes that are so wretchedly compassionate. I don't think she saw me shaking. I shake when I lie, and I told her that I was fine. I locked down like Fort Knox, hired extra security, barricaded the doors . . . and wished I could weep. She just kept chiseling away at me, with that pounding gentleness . . . I used to be her, didn't I? Aren't things supposed to go full circle in the opposite direction?
I've been writing loads of e. e. cummings-esque poetry that I would post here except for the absurd someone-might-steal-my-revolutionary-genius vanity. But I will just post a little of his because I love him and I love it and, well, so should you.


perhaps it is to feel strike
the silver fish of her nakedness
with fins sharply pleasant, my
youth has traveled towards her these years

or to snare the timid like
of her mind to my mind that i

an come by the little countries to the yes
of her youth.
And if somebody hears what i say--let him be pitiful
because I have traveleed all alone
through the forest of wonderful;
and that my feet have surely known
the furious ways and the peaceful

and because she is beautiful