whether it is we sleep, dream, and collide with desire with sickening, wet thuds,
or whether, in shorter moments, less precise, less pressing, less puerile,
we see those things which seem where they should be.
if, by some chance, you, or one of your friend’s hands,
came to divine those somnambulist’s pleasures,
please remember to drop some postcards about it-
as you walk away-
yet i will wander
like bullets with no powder
into, and out of, languid, grabbing fields
and perhaps my greatest hope,
as i am torn down by gripping shrubbery,
is that you understood what i meant when i just couldn’t do it.
Have you ever seen the things
that crawl around in the heart
and keep you from believing
in those tiny failures?
have you ever seen the things
that keep mistakes tied
to the loneliness of striving
for another chance at shrugging?
when i walk of late,
i stop and consider
the times when i was forced
into a new point of view.
the shining amber of the ongoing night
the broken hearts that keep falling
and shattering against the floor
and your smile inside,
the only mirth for miles in a dead city
spinning like one of those neon tops
that you get at the dollar store
what does a dying bird expect, though?
some quiet inward motion?
some great inner healing?
just the ability to see the sky one last time.
the kind with the little orange plugs
recall my small room that you no longer occupy
trees and the rays that shoot through
like pillars of your smile
and the precious warmth of your breast-
nowadays a fledgling bird stands in your holy place
and you yourself seem content in walking without socks
no longer careful how black your feet get –
even though it’s a terrible idea to give up here,
i have spotted even through the dim precipice
the slowly wilting edelweiss.
it’s cliche, perhaps, to wish
to hope those fruitless hopes
to consider dark, warm, unfamiliar corridors
i have continued to search
for you, and your pleasant sighs
the small hairs of your arm near smooth.
this place is dark now, like it was then.
and somehow, i wonder terrible things.
I endeavor, as i hope we may all once endeavor, to be gracious and capable. These things, however monastic, however solemn, are important. And how, through the years, i have come to ignore the discord and the buzzing that occurs on sour occasion in my garden.
there are a few things to consider, as humans. the least of which is not how we can’t be the impermanent flashes of sakura lighting which we seem to strive for without having to admit it. at the end of the day, we must consider eachother. most do not consider this fact.
of itself, though, i cannot feel sorry for the impudent and impatient masses. i cannot feel remorse as the twitching bags which happen to pay my way through food and toilet paper scream for their petty moments of control in a hopeless situation. Is it really control, or is it the hope that things will work despite not having made any decisions?
you, you greasy sea of LCL, are your own problem. understand this and be happy.
but i can’t stop sipping these delicious teas and thinking about how to make you go away for longer and longer periods….
Eternity on these amber days
like polaroid pictures pulled through taffy makers,
like the questions you had when you were little:
“How much does he love me?” and similar.
now things are new and well-stated and aching,
those same springing amber legs
now ambling, though purposeful,
now forgotten, though efficient.
and off now to interviews in sullen concrete tents,
to buy out your steel grins and cowering spouses.
soon enough, you will find precious emeralds,
sparkling green, and… sparkling green.
and the precious thought-monster that lived years ago
would shout from the depths of dead lungs:
“it’s only a rock! go and drink the cool waters!,
just stop digging your fingernails dry!”
but this girl in a dress, and two tiny red bows,
is just as well a bouquet in the mirror.
as the moon shines over the docile waters,
so too is the girl never clearer.
but really, however much you furrow your brow,
i cry for you in solemn moments.
wind from across heaven’s white, unerring breast,
rustling weeping trees , as though between two mirrors-
the rolling green under your bare feet—
Sisyphus gets predictability, at the very least.
but what sand sticks to the feet of we lesser mortals?
the up and down and lilting violins play.
should we count in years?
should we stop there, satisfied?
at a dreadful, imperfect integer?
under this same sun,
forgive this penitent beggar
with kind words
and the promise of sleep.
stand out in the rain-
keeping the light glow of aquamarine pupils
sweet amber dryad,
where futility lies.
lest Anteros’ phoenix
feign its own death
and keep inviting you to baseball games
lest you, irrational,
find yourself staring from the couch
to the ceiling.
As though all the light of your soul
came bleeding through your mouth
because of thoughtful midsummer presents~
in tomorrow lies a different perspective.
the waxen paper of today
burns brightly to light sleep’s route.
brightly and without hesitation
should your love endure, small one,
the starving oxen plowing endless wheat.
embrace, lonely pink flower,
the coquettish wind
before it is gone again into twitching, hateful plains.
remember the smiles of those you love.
these are more important
than the strange, cool breezes
that accompany them.
the tiny flood
which washes through the cavities in my brain
which fills up those confused parts with mirth
and drains slowly, or quickly, as circumstance demands
it is by itself, alone and uncomfortable,
the prescient martyr
the nagging engineer of faculty
who is ignored by my sanguine arbiter.
what hope is desire laid flat,
what desire is hope made canon?
and what despot causes this mingling?
soon enough, or too long spent, in the maze of Daedalus.
it was your eyes, as ever, that caught me inquiring,
what was the reason that you remembered my name?
it’s just saturday, i think
as the faucet in my brain screams,
vomiting scalding water (krovvy?)
and a smile falls from under your nose
how can i disappoint your formative breast?
the image of your swimming my icy river remain.
did your long exhalation start
with my head in your lap,
my terror leaking out of my eyes
like virgo trying to stifle a cough?
i know your name.
and my life has ended.
coincidence is so confusing.
where does love go after it drops out?
having been squezed like a novelty sponge?
it seems almost a sure thing that when i am most distressed and most emotional for whatever purpose or reason, my prose is horrible. i feel like this is a good example. i tend to think most of my prose is suckadocious, but i feel like i’m not even close with this stilted words, and as such, i become even more frustrated.
but keep trying! that’s what they say!
i’ll keep on it.
walk, young men, among the flowers,
and know the width and span of your lovers,
when soon enough comes the time,
your lines will fall slient and plodding
and the flower of your youth will wilt.
the confusing truth of childhood
become lies so clearly understood
as the rook moves just in front
the brunt of your efforts remain
focused on your glass bead collection.
it’s amazing how being interrupted can really just destroy the flow of words.
now i’m kind of bumped up a level, and out of the deep.
hmm… more later.