Rhapsody of the universe
The song and art of everything.
And a pen stroke
A brush line
A single note
Our place in that,
And were too small to see
The entire canvas.
Looking Beyond ForeverWhere does it lead?
The road past the rolling hills
The flowers and the sun
The clouds moving on beckoning us.
Wide is this path
A single way falling into the horizon,
A lonely journey
I long to walk this path
To run towards the end but never reach it.
The wind invites you to come with it along this road.
People Relax in the SummerThe patina of summer
Overlaying the Earth
The people and the cities
Mask the movement at our feet.
The birds in the sky- the animals below
All flowing like water around us
Changing while we sleep.
The ocean tides-
Grasping at the moon,
Dancing with the trees,
Aging over time,
Our time here-
Drawing to an end.
Nothing is ceasing
Despite our still minds
Our patina of summer.
Summer's Phantasm SongListen
In the breeze the crickets
The fairies light their lanterns
And the soft glow of night
Or our collective imaginations- radiates
The Best RelationshipOurs is
A love unfitted,
But full and strong.
Since it is while we sit in our own rooms
On the opposite sides of the world
Not knowing we exist.
We imagine our life together so sweet,
Who are we to have reality ruin it all?
A Narrow RoadLong walks
Down a narrow road
With my past at my heels
My future out of reach
The present always catching up.
ChildI am not finished with my childhood
I am not out of my wonderment
My knowledge cannot fill up
Like a cup. It does not overflow.
I will never grow beyond my imagination,
My youth is internal, beyond my body
Beyond my soul and beyond this world.
The young ones here are forever.
OursWe come together, and we fade away.
We are always here, but we cannot stay.
It is what we love, it is what we are.
The destiny of everyone, but ours alone
Is what matters to today.
The SunThe sun is shining on the sidewalk
On Tuesday, after school, after war
After a child is born, and a man dies.
The wind that blows in the cold brings in the new warmth.
The rain gives life as it helps destroy.
The universe that begins becomes to an end.
The same sun that shines on the sidewalk shines on our skin
On the soldier and the killer,
ElenaElena followed me home
from work one night
and stayed for tea and eggs,
and all that minimum wage
and wars between the sheets
She said she was a goddess,
daughter of a carpenter
with her long red, red hair
and eyes as warm as hazel nuts
on Christmas morning.
Her hands spoke braille
across my back
and made the silence
of Sunday into a prophecy.
She left one October
just like she said she would
when the fireflies
had turned their wings to ash.
And I found revelation
in red, red wine
and cheap red, red fabric
that came off in my hands
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desks
i don't think they liked the language i used
when i wrote how my heart was beating
like headboards against the walls of people fucking
at 3 am to the sounds of joy division
whenever you read me paintings at dawn.
they were going to send me to the counselor,
but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,
so they just let me go.
but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,
i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roof
and laughing when we argue about rimbaud
and sighing as we start to die.
WineHead on a patisserie table
with a wine-scented napkin
that I scrawled your name all over
in the hopes it might necromance
or just romance you
to this place, at this time,
so we could be together again
and although the guitarist knows
that I'm broken beyond blue
I keep reaching for the bottle
in the hopes it might recreate
or just replicate
short history of the universe(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)
A lake slams into a bus and a city is unborn.
Enter an ocean of fog and then desert after desert stacked above the hills.
Then you get drunk as fuck near the tumbling skyline,
and this god damned room burns like prayer in your chest.
Then many missing scientists reappear in your brittle beach,
and your satellites in relapse all bending,
and what it's like is some kind of disaster, honestly;
the arms and the aerosol and the linen and the light.
And the rumble forwarding the sovereign wreck saying
survive yourself like you've survived me;
saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,
and same for the carousal shadow bleeding through the mountain in your dream,
same for your silence and the sudden red rain of witnesses.
And then what unconquerable continents,
what strange forecast occupied via gate via wind and wave-
multitudes of sick yellow branch
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,
or to have myself cradled
in the curve of a throat,
but to be broken,
to be diminished
by your lack of affection
& over indulgence of sexualization.
uneducated in your intent,
found myself left entirely whole
& incapable of the fury
i had sought to sow between the
ridges of my aching ribs.
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echo
of a cloudburst,
the earth curls invisible fingers
about my achilles' tendon
she cries that i am not
intended for the clouds,
that my mind must not wander
between their susurrous concaves
furious with her insistence,
untether myself from the soft,
diaphonous comfort of the heavens
down into the weight of gravity.
listless green blades welcome my soles,
stimulating a tickle,
a sneeze; i never have done well
she is calling for me,
soft-tongued and crisp in her
& i am sorely tempted
i am not for the soil.
she becomes my inhale;
my alveoli shudder
beneath her force--
i am not for the air, either.
i stand beneath her onslaught
until she tires,
her molten heart beating beneath my toes;
unable to woo me with her facets,
cloaking me in one last attempt,
a final shadow.
my pores bloom
& i r
muddy waterthe sun rises late now. or hardly ever.
or belligerent carmine on the underbellies of plants.
a shot of sleep to the head, a boxing glove punch.
the metaphorical rooster crows with the awful clamour of its lonely breath.
the thing is, i can substitute the body.
the thing is, the slit
is a fantastic shade of orange
i saw god but he says you still need to get a fucking job
the thing is, i am bathtub water and rotten leaves.
and the taste of power on the morning wind,
a wet newspaper
with the headlines of a presidential divorce.
there is power in the young eagle
hissing at passersby from its trashcan throne.
i know one thing:
I'm too poor to feel so middle class.My teeth still ache from the dentist,
but it doesn’t stop me from nibbling
the cheese danish I bought at Kroger
this morning, warmed by thirty
seconds in the microwave. My mug
of hot chocolate is too big, and I
drink it all. The washer is on its last
cycle; the cat is purring at my feet.
Netflix is background noise
to clacking keys, typing a transcript
of middle class morning that I’ll later
call a poem or a turning point,
wondering when I became such an adult.