Victors Heart Chimes

 I am Tiresias. Ever-changing constellation of stirring selves, positioned in part on sand and sea, while parts of me rest on the beach with a differing degree of permanency. I am Tiresias. Ever approaching their magnum opus, or at the least growing situated in a working thesis. With cut phrases and sentences stretching across the sky, I’m restringing stars as guiding lights to soften the black crash of night. The tides have turned. The sands have shifted. Time’s slow elegant brushstrokes transform into panicked spurts of energy. The game remains the same and is ever afoot. Hapless Taurus with a splinter in his eye, charged far off course, blinded by shards of prophecy, praying this odyssey home won’t grow worse. It’s in community, unity, taking opportunity, to lift each other up by what we see. Taking wisdom’s cartography and planting seeds inside of me, inside of you. When all the loss stacks up and leaves you bereft of breath, silence pressing inward, col...

  Under the Still Black Sky One last time we looked for lights in the sky.  It’s been months since I’ve seen you. Thank you for joining me tonight. Several final goodbyes broached— we’re catching up under black skies. Step by step up the path, we share stories and strife of our diverting roads to healing, the shock and numb that parting brought to life. The sky was clear and full of stars, but absent of the northern lights that once tethered us to wonder. We stood and shared on the dark hillside, punctuating pause points to take inventory of the sky and see if the lights had yet arrived. You agreed to meet if I kept things light. I wonder if you think of me, why you accepted my invite to come out under cover of night. I compartmentalize and save these things for my next moment alone. A latent sadness backdrops the conversation.  Us stargazing like days of old. Certain topics tabled, forever without reproach. Burning questions I hold still, for we are lost lovers on diverg...

A Line Between Caution and Freedom You, in cutting ties— Said that leaving was a mercy. Ten years shrank: two lone leaves joined together, revolving. Blown through each season, parted from their shared journey, far from home. Rejoining the world when I had forgotten what it meant to be alone. I am free, I tell myself— or that’s the sentiment I receive from your parting remark. I will untether you from me and return again to being plainly me. Or maybe the ties that bind, steeped in time, are ever deep. And as some ill-fated lover of mythology, I’ll roam free— neither lone, nor lived, but an amalgam of your ghost, forever a part of me. I am free while sight dims in my eyes— thief came with little explanation, lingering with no way to return what's gone It’s in the hands of fate or God how long I will see with clarity. Somewhere between fear and “fuck it,” I march through my days. Grateful for seeing today. For friends and family who see me whole. For company that softens this invisib...

  The Museum Was Me I. The Memory Rooms I stare at the blank blinking cursor and wonder which memory rooms stand intact. These memory rooms, gilded and glowing in opulence, now rest—scarred by a revolt that brought firebombs aplenty. Less so for pride or show, these rooms once neatly arranged by eras, chapters, ages that have past told a remarkable story. Memories adorn the walls while trinkets, tokens, and portraits once proud and prominently arranged liven the room with a steady hum of warmth. Framed photos, photo-albums, notebooks and collected novels weave the tale of a life lived well. An undertaking that wasn’t much when it began, stands as a mighty museum of oddities and curiosities slowly curated in time. II. The Revolt Begins The revolt changed everything. Dark figures stormed the rooms. Portraits were knifed. Images of grace and goodness were sliced marring the figures and unions once held in gilded stillness. A family portrait of our trip to the coast was ...

Oh Eurydice, darling— I hope you’re up there, Waiting for me where we last said goodbye. And I descended these stairs. The basement rings quiet With what once used to be. Lights flicker, then fall as my search grows dire. Oh Eurydice, darling— I won’t stop searching Til I see you again. I scour these letters we once exchanged and the gifts we shared— But strewn bare through the basement, no clue remains. The love we held withered as I wailed Oh darling may this not be the end. Tears form— something sharp steals my voice Is it hope in vain that I am here today? Eurydice who held up the sun— May I see you again. This place is dark thick with memory I cant find my way free. Your voice, runs circles through my head. I turn to see— But only empty dark greets me. The light in your letters has begun to fade Love’s vision once held in verse, in form fell to ash in my hands. Eurydice darling— the song’s spell we sang that brought us here has fallen from my ear. If you he...

    Upon A Quiet Night It’s surreal, this walking upon the earth—jockeying and wrestling with yourself to stake deliberateness, to claim intention, to become something you yearned for, something that once bore fire in your heart. From quiet self-revolution in spaces outgrown, to traversing avenues physical and liminal previously unknown. It is eerie to sit down upon a quiet night and host the ghosts of traveling souls here no more. To hold the voices and personalities of those once loved and tenderly cared for, now revolving in space somewhere else—off in a distant place without a trace, or crossed over to the world beyond. The residue of loves discovered, or connections tempered, never quite fades. Upon a quiet night, if still enough, the atoms in space hoist their charge—their beauty bursts in magnificent ways. The myriad versions of self that became present and possessed your body become strange—variably close in memory. Some farther, some closer. Some buried, some ha...

  Shadow Among Torch Lights I would have once told you even shadows warm when I walk long enough with them. Now in some cosmic role reverse I am the chilling shadow walking among torch lights. Vibrant fire in my heart runs black and gray Embers pass there glow extinguishing into ash. Calculating clear clarity of my eyes dries into a maze of fog. Like Achilles heel clipped, I wander old streets, old spaces, eyes bowed low. A once radiant figure ablaze with boon like inspiration, and an unending sense of purpose bound to his bones, stripped. As if some spiritual covenant broached, signed in blood, was breached. For what transgressions done, I wander in discordant form My silhouette curled around sharp old sins, stunted murmurs echo: where have I been. Pavement marked by spirit seeping through old steps, old paths, a world I am divorced from. The air sings dirges in forgotten tongues. Morning dew falls like memories forgotten— Remnants remain, soon to evaporate away. Silence h...

     Canopy Collapse As a kid I wanted to see the stars better. I wanted to hold their radiant Warmth in the center of my eyes Til I drift off to sleep. I wanted to lie down beneath them And press my mind to the task of Grasping the magnitude of this place. So I learned how to climb to the canopies tiptops. Now that I secured A good view I needed away to stay up here. So I learned how to fashion and tie ropes. Spin, wrap, knot, I began to weave a web of ropes. They were material ropes, as much as figurative ropes. Interwoven with ropes were hopes that This is what obtaining the good life looked like. A mighty force of friends and family In my proverbial corner, A pursuit of a promising career, A loyal, long-term lover to hold, to be held by, to share, to delight in. Spin, wrap, knot, my woven web atop these tree tops was becoming done. I lay back with you to hold this dream of stargazing til night’s end, til our bodies tired and gave in to sleep’s soft, sweet s...

  Awaking from Stasis A slow, sharp inhale, punctuates the rise from a great deep sleep Next follows short shallow breaths, confusion, urgency. Sweet dreams torn asunder, sweet dreams, and I resisting the warmth they bring. Grief lowly strolls now in place of something once sacred and sweet. The body rises in new space, new scene Yet the mind loads and rolls fraying old film roles. Whirr—click—tick, whirr—click—tick, The fading ghosts of vibrant dreams playback. The characters worn, faded From repeated use, the scenes worn, graying from locales growing foreign. Whirr—click—tick, whirr—click—tick, Once favorite films that brought this body electric are soon to be brought down to storage. They lose more life with each play. I rise from bed, beginning my next role, Next scene. Thrrrrr—the projector hums,  the reel dislodged, sputters in rotation. Thrrrrrr—click, Thrrrrrr—click, Stasis is gracious and slow as it tries to write over a life I didn’t want to throw away. Time movi...

A Poem for the Name I No Longer Answer To We were never creative with cutesy nicknames. A simple, refined hun did the trick. Or hun-bun to comically say in an angry tone for comedic effect. I don't remember once these nicknames came, but once established replaced our given names. The couple of weeks it took me to pack, Your given name was back in place. Love's enchantment faded, Jokes and dreams dissipated. A fractured vision—both of us, and the world itself. The lights didn’t just go out in us. They dimmed behind my eyes. The future steadies somewhere behind my pupils, where vision fades but resolve sharpens. Of the damage incurred and the sharp, strong force of the human resolve pushing the envelope of science that’s not been previously possible. A prayer in white knuckled hands, A dream spoke in quiet fiery tones A rising out of bed “fuck it” before kicking off the sheets and getting to work anyway. Please don’t turn the lights out behind my eyes.

It Was Never Just Falling Out of Love You say you fell out of love— like the glass had cracked, spilling out the meaning of dreams, the sting of shared growing pains, hopes of home, the gilded laughter curled around our cats, our joy stretched across oceans and train rides. Like love just… poured from that once-hallowed glass, and now the nectar pools, forgotten, drying where no one kneels to gather it. But we were almost a decade in. You don’t lose that kind of time without feeling the unseen quakes— jarring bones, jarring memories. After you slept in someone else’s arms, my body forgot how to seek yours, and yours forgot how to reach. We slept on different floors, in different worlds, each night drifting out to sea, no one left steering us home. And I felt it— the shift, that slow retreat dressed in quiet like it was mercy. The new rhythms we rehearsed in silence: rising alone, still wondering if you'd notice the empty side of the b...

Forward, I follow my feet. Hither and thither I trudge. Hither and thither I trounce Forward I follow my feet until a fog I did meet. The Great Fog greets me. The way forward,  the way through Lies inside this damp, obscure cloud. Forward still, I lead. Forward, my feet reach  To meet the shrouded grounds. A shallow, cold, wet surprises my feet. I look up from the ground, but I cannot see. The damp, dense cloud is all around.  I square up,  Sharpen my posture  To make decisive, clear  The steps forward follow the same direction. My feet, I follow forward.  Clip clop, clip clop, The fog grows cold, A steady gait holds an ember of warmth aglow. Clip clop, clip clop, The damp grows cold Soaking through my clothes. Clip clop, clip clop, The mist hums a lullaby spun in silver, Warm as surrender— But it sings only for those it means to keep. Clip clop, clip clop. My feet fly forward  Like nocked arrows Repeatedly coiled, released, coiled- The hum is enc...

Three months into my first relationship, I went to Florida with my boyfriends parents. We fell into the stereotype of queer couples moving all too fast. From the first date, we were full steam ahead on a mighty adventure of love, romance, and young-adult optimism. Within those first three months I spent many nights at his house. Attending the same university, and by mere happenstance he lived less than ten minutes where I lived with my parents. The stars mightily aligned to set this romance to the breakneck speed of ten. In hindsight I get a kick of managing to keep the front without suspension that we were friends and not my first same gender relationship exploding to life. Florida. Flying most the way across the country with him and his parents was some blind leap of faith that paid wild dividends. It was intimate, intense, but I was poised. It was family lunches, dinners, but for three months in we were a bonded pair. It was a near two hour drive from the beach house to Universa...

 I'm driving home. A sharp sting floods in through the down windows. The air wildly tousles my air. I finished work for the day, the sun descends, the air playfully whips and whistles, I'm free. The night beyond waits to unfold. I'm excited to return home. For in an about an hour I'll be able to unwind with my love. I wonder what movie we'll find to watch, maybe a TV show, or casually catch up with music on in the back.  Will we talk about the things unsaid? The lack of comfort between us. The drought of touch. The dive into distraction to keep the peace, or to serve as an anchor to reconnect. The too often tabled troubles tucked behind the curtain of love, will they emerge? I wonder how his day was, if he's still enjoying work, if he's making strides in his social efforts with co-workers. Is he taking care of himself through the day, eating well? I merge onto the highway, intensifying the winds thrash and drag. I barrel towards home. Will the conversation v...

 It’s comical the slowness with which a face changes. I caught glimpse of myself a couple months ago.   Pale, brooding, spiraling—   I spent more time in the sun than was optimal.   It’s comical, those subtle changes.   A lifetime ago, the mirror would smile—   warm, happy, the feeling   reverberating from glass to lips.   It’s comical,   this mirror holds all,   this mirror holds nothing.   I strike me, the mirror.   It’s comical how it sees—   now more complete.   Cracks crinkle, cracks crinkle into different cracks.   The opulent hue of bliss   that lights a smile—   the deep cold tremor   that lurks below a long look.   The rich vein of love ran dry,   idles in still eyes.   My face, at once a still meadow,   weathers the emotive seasons.   Ebb and flow ...

Oh, love, I asked for tenderness.  But your hands, absent with purpose, stayed still. Love, I hungered for connection, Yet your deflection was a deafening rejection that made My vulnerable words are like fire in my throat. I ate my strained words for it hurt less not to share. Love, my desire for intimacy deepened to depravity. A warm flame in search of life lost in perpetual night Your words were coarse, denying my worth, it’s warmth. Love, I wish your words held less worth.  Oh, love, I wish we weren't here  in night eternal, where fog drapes the walls, Its suffocating veil blurring what we were, Floating away untethered in the dark, A house hollowed by shadows and silence, where faint whispers of our memories echo, then fade, Their echoes swallowed by the void Their warmth scattered like ash in the cold.  Oh. Love, softness receded like the last rays of sunshine retreating into frigid night Love, that animated this house,  Love, that made the house alight, a...

A Chapter of Grieving Love  The silence that falls between moments is jarring, alarming. The momentum of the clouds passing or the sun's rays  ceasing for just a moment. In that fractional space between the now and the next, births an unapproved mental field trip.  Denial The field trip forms sometimes over the peaks of the life we shared, the love we bore. A birds eye view gliding over the tapestry of a myriad of broached firsts. A love between two sons, bright enough, strong and sure enough to take news home to family. Fully knowing the lifestyle choice would raise tensions, create dissent. But this love was worth raising fire at home. Then, across the plains of times old, times fresh still being etched into memory. Brilliant waves of family vacations, the angst and joy of bringing you to family dinner, UFC fight nights, poetry open mic nights weave together amassing a vibrant field of dreams.A beautiful unity in love rose to dethrone assumptions and aspersions. Family ...

 Together we traveled through first meetings and the awkwardness that follows gracefully, excellently.  Together we waggled into mischief, misadventure, invented a monotony to relax into, a base line to rise above. Together, but separatly we watched one another fall into poor health and rebound. Together we summited mountains, shared in family milestones, memories, and mournings.  Then one day the light turned out. The heat and hue of the homes hearth struggled to flicker under the weight of adversity. Shared activities became private endeavors. Shared meals, shared time together ceased.  Together we traveled halfway around the world. The silence shrunk the life of this home. Alone I waited for a togetherness to resume. The stove to flash on and for intricate ideas to fill the pans for hungry stomachs patiently awaiting. Alone I waited for us to remedy the adversity that dampened our hearts, dampened the hearth. But for times steady hand, the silence grew chasms betw...

  Hell hath no fury, like the might of the human heart. For somewhere in or around this tiny vessel the beginning seeds of religiosity were sown. In the heart’s ability to be simultaneously: soothsayer, curse maker, heartbreaker, and dreamweaver, we are perplexed by the complex production around us.  Somehow in the mish-mash back and forth of these languages of the heart, life is spun into motion, all we know to be right and wrong of ourselves is brought forth into fruition. Suffice to say, heaven and hell are chambers of the heart and which one you occupy can be a choice, and which one you occupy today may change tomorrow.

For me the draw and drag of writing is welcoming someone into the house of my spirit. A humble abode that is not often clean and tidy, but upon news of a guest I prepare with a reasonable tidy. Enough to be presumably clean, not enough to suggest the expectation of company.  My house is lived in with my mass of milk containers piled in the hallway to the kitchen and dishes stacked, filling the sink. I dislike the look that gives, but I often find myself to busy to keep up with trivial tidings. My bed slept in. An understatement because that bed has seen me curse at night, seek the value of comfort and solace, that “turn in” feeling, that I can never find. But the scene of a mess of sheets and blankets strewn madly about remains. A hard fought trophy I push it out of mind because of insomnia or the voracious tossing and turning, yearning for a renewing rest, but somehow remains out of grasp.  It’s my abode and I dislike the way that it reflects me. But the doorbell rang, an ind...