i am shattered broken glass
and you are merciful enough to bleed
picking me up with your feet.
truthfully, i haven't felt shattered since we met
(or, more honest still, we reunited)
and i know i will ever more be greater than
broken porcelain.

I'm thinking that the layout of the new book should be as follows:
chapter
dream
chapter
chapter
dream
chapter
dream
chapter
chapter
chapter
dream
chapter
chapter/dream

not that exactly, but something like that. something so that those of like bent will yearn, even strive for the dreams, will go through chapter to chapter to captivating dream, and those a little less fey will find the dreams mere oddities, worth sitting through while waiting on the chapters. quirky, they'll say. a bit odd, they'll comment. but definitely worth the 14.95 that a book costs now a days.

and there's still the matter of the fiction book and the non-fiction book and the two children's books and the screenplays and the second act of impenetrability to make it something more grown up so that i can get productions of it around the state, and then the country, and then a better part of europe.

and maybe there's hope for my over-indulgent poetry as well, for words too big for their pages. maybe there's a way to do that as well, or to make something come out of countless photographs too big. everything about me, too big. this is the root of my obsession with space, the true heart of my minimalist bent. my words, my voice, my sound, my hands, my head, my heart... all too big.

sometimes i feel as though her greatest gift to me lies in her ability to plunge her hand deep into my core and pull apart little pieces of me. jerking them free of me, she will study them carefully, lovingly, and then place them back in my hand, so that i can make sense of them. make sense of myself.