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.

While Stumbling into a Sanctuary

Twirling gold murmurs around me; we are
peripherally interpreting
the lines and lowering
defenses. Here. We project
a sense of lecture, conjecturing thought
and dream.
As cadence overtakes
the fury of the outside
the anguish of the mundane
the taste of the truth of fear,
we breathe the calm
and our minds become a heart.

The Conjectured Birth of Greece

When the sky collapsed upon us, we had nowhere.
Our fear distilled the order of things
In the way a hot liquid blisters to gas
And visits the sun.

Then we dreamt of drifting away
To where sinking ships like sky and sea
Simply resurfaced on the other side.
And there, we hoped, we could fathom
What it’s like to stray within the ocean’s dark current
And never again succumb
To the pull of our senses.

But we never thought that the sky could be held still.
And our hearts were taken – nay, given
When ships of gods born from the stars reached out
To shield us and save what we cherished.
Only then did we see them transform our new debt
Back into doom once again.

Of Life in the Deep Blue

Yesterday, my son had no heart.
His languid philosophy left his lips limp
without ever learning
how to care. How can love fix that?

I saw the same stars, once,
through the hole in my once-apathetic core.
But instead of dwelling, I reached deep
and tore out a reason to keep living. And this filled my hole
with bliss.

My son never held a heart in his hands.
And I never gave him the wisdom to
free himself from feeding on a morbid world.
A good father would have been waiting
to stop and stir the truth in life in his son
without watching him cast out of the deep blue.

I only hope the gods of the tide
on the other side of the surface
can father him better than a broken man.

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.

An Afternoon Before The Internet

The mild air of summer’s sun enveloped him

As he stood at arms, imagination his only ally.

Sparkles of sweat slid from his cardboard corona,

Making splits and splats upon the sandbox fortress.

Still he charged: Odin at his lips.

Spinning, thrusting in a masterful dance,

Plastic carved the air and draconic foes spilled.

With a red-crested lion hugging his lungs

He sang of victory.

Even the clouds caught the chorus.

His ardor faded with the dying light,

And his creator, grinning, stepped forth.

The world came to a sudden halt, and

The proud warrior exchanged his arms

For a shallow bowl of Mac ‘N Cheese and a warm bed.

What You Said

You asked, will you love?

and to love is all you can do

because we are young, going

no where tangible

yet

everywhere within ourselves.

Where will we go next?

We can be legendary.

Let’s forgo our acquiescence.

Let’s resist the dive into the deepest chasm and fill our lungs

with the unknown.

We will exhale no sorrow for never knowing the mundane.

Because life is everything but clairvoyant.

I hope you understand.

I understand.

But where are you?

Without the disease in our dreams

we will forge our pity

and our hope

into heaven. Together.

We can explode from seclusion

and feast our dormant embryonic hands

in all their pride.

We can run from this. To our living chimera.

The soul of a lost man doesn’t beckon, you said

if he instead accepts what is

nature as truth.

And truth is knowing what is right

to be rightful and beautiful.

And what is truly Beautiful?

The line between

Light and Dark.

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.

As An Oak

I’ll exclaim, assure, imply,
Holler, whisper; I’ll maintain
Through illest valleys; gorgeous peaks
“I’ll be here!” I’ll always promise.

When your weary little toes
Can’t grasp the earth to carry on,
I’ll find a snack, or two, or ten,
And shade you from the sun.

If the clouds defeat the sun,
Dowsing, drowning freezing rain
I’ll shelter you and hide your hair
From drenching and cold-catching.

Whenever boredom threatens you,
Whoever woos or beckons you
To fates less favorable than your dreams,
I’ll brandish guard; defend you.

And if, in the years to come, if
The skies bleed brown with poison,
Fear not, because I’d even die
To keep your breathing clear.

All I ask, my One, my Ever After,
Is when I pass, to plant my dust
Beneath a sturdy, gentle oak
So I may keep my promise.

The Future

Calm hearts argue for equality
And equal hearts
Definitely
Lead to man’s survival.
But who will survive man?

Once I argued for equality.
Once I witnessed the underprivileged.
Once, and only once, I went and winced
At the deepest tragedies; whining, waging war
Upon themselves. I winced once at followers
Of faeries and falsehoods.
Twice, this time I thought
I’d rather share nothing at all.

I Am A Poet

Witness me.
I do not explain,
Nor do I document.
I do not deign to write
For the sake of anyone else.
For I am a poet.

I am a poet, not a writer; I write
Without reason, and reason without
The need to make sense. For that
Is why I write: on wry, on red, on wrists with roars
Of rages and ranges of words. Would I, I’d be world-less.
I am a poet: confused.

I am no weaver of the weak, no support of young or meek.
I am no Dr. Seuss, nor Poe, no trippy cat or raven’s foe.
Why should I prove myself to freaks who seek the peak of knowledge?
This heart belongs not in the canon;
Casting me on famine’s throne.

My life is not devoted to creation of a masterpiece.
My skills instead simply instill me with a sense of self
And purpose – though I know I have none.
No one has one – no one will win – there is no win or one.
One win – one real win won – would win us nothing: none.
Don’t you see?

I am a poet: not a writer. I am a thinker, not a guide.
Not a greedy fabricator, I am no Rowling, I am no Meyer.
I am a simple poet; I simply think;
I simply am.

Sweatitation

Droplets like upside-down matches;
Running marathons all over me.
Blood-warm on my hands and feet,
The taste is of a salty sea
As each opaque wave explodes.
Yet, there is an absence of sulfur;
The smell of dirt is in its place.
Sulfur’s scent never tasted right, anyway.
Sandy Shelle never thought so,
Waiting by the Red Sea,
Droplets dropping dry in the dirt.
Fear is such an unusual fear.
If only we saw the beauty in singing; in living;
But we don’t, and so we are not of the anura.
The lush Poison-Darts of the forest know the way
And if we got close enough to touch one,
We’d learn to stop living ourselves to death.
Shén me wŏ men rèn wei wŏ men chéng wéi.
The droplets will catch up to me eventually.

Poor Little Scooter

Through whistling flapjacks of skin in the wind,
I witnessed the atmosphere's gasses soar through her.
Bewildered I sat, and behind batting lashes burned
A Brave, beastly lady boasting girth of a bear.

Had I been in congress, a new law would be passed.
Riders would no longer ride rides
Which weighed less than they...

Angries and Lonelies

If only the lonely would breathe.
Heaving their loneliness only
And way away it'd fly on lies.
If only the lonely could breathe.

Hanging within him and angering him only
Less grizzly he'd be if his anger were free
If only the angry could grin at the lonely
The lonely might think again lovely
And the angry might instead turn green.

downhill

The wind cheered,
The pavement parted,
The wheels stumbled,
The handles flexed,
But the tree protested.

The White Man Rapture

The Bible was probably mistaken, misread.
Alternate universe preachers might sermonize
Jesus will descend from acid rain, high as ozone
With a pack of cigars tucked in his collagen lips:
Primped like a pussy by mankind,
But ready to take one for the team… again.
He’ll swing his fully automatic piece like King Kong,
Raining death from the heavens, screaming
Are you ready to repent, bitches?
And all his little worshippers will run like watercolors

And I’ll turn to them, in hilarity, and ask,
You paid attention in Astrology, didn’t you?
The age of Pisces will end eventually
And I can’t wait for Aquarius to bust in.