Crescendo

So I ran.
The forest grew before me and my feet
pattered against dying leaves; crunched with crescendos of everything
that never wanted to be left behind. But I
couldn't make time move faster
than her.

When

When {
micropixels behind the eyes wake up
like a colony of bees at night; }
When {
mahogany age-rings splayed across the table
begin to inch up against each other in the dark; }
When {
the lies of dead poets forced on the wall
break apart and form something more simple; }
When {
the television watches itself and cries
because tomorrow it goes to the glue factory; }
When {
books tumble off the shelves and open up
against the floor; }
When {
part of the brain climbs into a delta wave and
part of the brain sits, watching; }

Static

Too many ages ago the earth stopped
moving for a day
and shards of time in the stones
began pointing North instead of South.

I am a rock, too—
pointing and never faltering
but maybe soon
when time stops again for a moment and shifts
everything
will twist like a compass suddenly spinning
south;
I will stop and move in a new direction
because everything static is hopeless.

From Old Town Tipsy

Tired.
It's Late.
I'm inbetween places
and drunk and just sad.

But I wouldn't be letting you in
if I wasn't the least bit
happy, too.

And I am.

Abduction

When the faces appear and dance before me
in the darkness
barely past the extent of my arm
I'll sit up and throw down the sheets.

While they tear me into their world
with a stillness of light too green
to be light
I'll seek to brush my toes against at least one
tall Eucalyptus and grab as much sweet jasmine
air into my lungs
before being placed into their arms;
before getting pinned down like a limp
frog in a god's laboratory.

My friends have taught me to win in life
by pinning any frogs down with a solid fist
and never flinching;
to always yell;
to fight.

My friends are disfigured.

When the strangers in gray are carving out
my frontal lobe, I'll think of my father
and how he taught me what freedom is—
and maybe about how I'll give that orb of fury;
sponge between my eyes—to someone spiteful.

As the Tree Sings Timber

I stood eyeless among life’s endlessness, absorbing vastness;
Growing old; growing mighty; growing wise, and patient for death
I watched as humankind began its cancerous tread across the world.
Tears, if a growth could grieve, might have deluged down my trunk
If I were human. While nature swallowed the gorgeous plague that is civilization,
Karma, a force godly among gods, laughed with its Seven Deadly Weapons.
Though we who hold nature were placed aside, as we always are,
Credit for a fresh earth sleeps still, buried in the dead stumps and swelling pits
We are the entity who lives forever. We are the elders – the mouths
Who watch over you, breathing every cell a better life. We grow tall
And never tired. Never will nature be put to rest, and nothing will change
In a world where cabins and sculptures are structured of bone and steel.

Tears in a Bearded Scarf

If I had a hole, would you even patch me?
or would the threads hang with my wishes
to hold something worth falling out?

Would you let them untangle
until I’m a life no longer worth wrapping around you?
Hang me decrepit as a feast for moths?
Toss me aside and adopt something warmer?

No.

A misperceived hole in your world turns it
radically. And I am radiant regardless.
My hole has bristles growing to catch any woe
and prove a little light always shines through.

Mend me if you must,
but pessimism is a dull razor rusting
and optimism just keeps growing.