pretty lace, and somber-delicate,
the prideful work of uninspired hands,
count the death of chronos’ teaching
with orders of $7 coffees.
and yet, i find still,
your greasy face, your smug look, your flaunting dowry,
and i tremble, weakened by a moment’s alacrity,
that i should have ever fawned for sicker milks-
how direly i want to rise up and be
the lotus from mud, or at least moss from tree,
and how pertinently your face doth gaze through,
my myopic transfixion, my death liquours-
yours, i can only imagine,
is the noonday walk down flowering oaken street-
for cigarettes and a pregnancy test.
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.