It is strange to hear my wordsRead back to me.I don't think I wrote themTo have them ever leave the page.I think I only writeWhat happens across my brainWhen my feet are too weary To dance anymore.
~ Stasia Ward Kehoe
Do I dare ask him for what I want,As if I knew it,Could find it on some pageIn some chapterIn some book?
Does it matter that people and thingsHave words,Have names?If not,Why read any book?A litany of useless lettersDetached from bone, muscle.Or are words the only things that make the muscle, bone, memory, movement,PersonReal?
Dare I tell them that since I came here to danceI have been giving pieces of my body awayTo ridiculous diets,To repeated injuries,To Remington?And that maybeI thinkWith each bit of my bodyI lose a little piece of my soul
I've a long time trying to lovea brother whose only way of touching me is pain.A long time escaping into music.Practice, lessons, rehearsals that protect mefrom the hurting parts of life.I've been winning awards, applause,acclaim for my trumpets since I was in grade s
Life is a big story. Music is just one way to tell it, to realize how many tales all kinds of people share.
The dusty library air is electric with secrets/ almost palpable in the thick quiet that bounces between/ Cal and those books and me
I feel his arm Lightly Over me.He takes one of my outstretched hands.Draws it beneath my stomach.One more time...This is not sex,Not friendship. SomethingStrangeSpecialIn the stillness of his breath,The waterlike way he moves.He is making a dance.We are making a dance.
Four laughs vibrate in harmony,WarmDeliciousReal.
