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[ .pushes. edit ]

there are ghosts in that room
sitting & smoking
waiting for the years to come in the dark
reading or shifting or piling things into themselves
ghosts shape the rooms that we live in
so they can swallow us whole

when she walks in the room
through the threshold
and finds new beginnings
seeping out of every pore and pander

her silver cross around her neck
my bidden palms around her neck
as the sound breaks
and pushes us from the scene we make
to the scene that ordanely or divinely follows

lost my marker once again
in the bustle and bow of the shipwrecked crowd
as she leaves through the silence
of the wind rushed masthead

we are talking over rushes
of rust bitter coffee
and she talks so calmly
about the disasterous effect
of life on water
[pushing us on]

I missed the pang of my bitten heart and stomach
crying out like a lost sea [red dot to signal Turner home]
looking intimately for the only thing
that purifies the fallen brow

so the bidden lay the weary at my cross & stone
and I build makeshift images with paint and broken fingers
streaking red blue green gold
on a covering of my own demise
a paint riddled surface of an ancient oak door
gone soft but heavy with the edge & weathering of time

so I push again at the frayed edges of your hair & mask
upon you head and face
and somewhere on the far sealed edge
we find the children playing and pushing dusty checkers
on an untouched board

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[ .ten and gravel. ]

cold boy hitting on a
snarled beat like a whore,
music scorned for the lonely,
where sodom&gomora have lost
their house-hold qualities
and I pour myself another thought
into the tin and I write down
my worries and frayed edges.

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[ .sleeping.fragments. ]

we sleep in sorrow
under the dust of the little ones
that used to hide at my feet
but now they use their slender touch
to make and break my reflection
and I am lost in this blizzard of human dust
where we wait to fall asleep at nitebreak
when sorrow makes shapes and shadows
on the walls where we cannot control them
and in my sheltered down husk
I hide the remaining fragments of my reflection
pushing at the edges of shade
until they become supple and rounded
and I no longer need to pull my mask down

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[ .what.I.wouldn't.do. ]

what I wouldn't do, if I could just escape this life.
what I wouldn't do, if I could just wake up.
what I wouldn't do, if I could just be myself again.
what I wouldn't do, if I could just find myself again.
what I would do, if I could just breathe...

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[ .semblance.&.seams. ]

gravity pulling me
where we feel so small
as it pulls at the seams with
sticthes dragging out of
pin-pricked holes
crossed moving lines
the ribs cracking
as we move the flesh back
my edges lost in an aimless shuffle
as the sides pull loose
and we feel the separation of semblance

@bmc 2003

excerpt from .The.Judash.Diaries.
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