[In the Anglo-Saxon lyric style]

The darkness of a winter,    white and bitter,
Suddenly turns     to treasure precious;
For in the wake     of waning day-light
I am reminded,      remorseful truth,
of life departing.    A prayer is sung
Of a loved-one’s body-draught;   the bleakest sorrow.
Time and fate,     fellows of legacy,
Become ice-clear.     I see their meeting-point,
In measure of days,     drawing closer;
And this winter solemn     now seems frost-fleeting.
Growing dearer     are the days of chill
now seemingly wielded      of wealthiest gold.

snappy synapses predict the end of the world
and i am growing tired of growing older
while the year without a summer continues plummeting
toward my house in time
and we bide our time on our backs
smearing the yellow pixie dust of sunflowers on our eyes
because at least the yellow makes us smile
asking can the moon tire of orbiting the earth
and break away like a rubber band on its last snap
triumphantly spitting into the windless night
until our lips are dry as oxygen-starved mountain air
but I know better now
than to judge a night by its morning
because the truest words have always been written
on the bitter parchment skin of almonds
masking the cherry-sweetness of the flesh
and the artist may be starving but she is never starved
if she can learn to feed on pits and branches
for the flesh of the fruit is never quite as sweet
and in a dewy stupor we raise our faces to a dawn
that shatters the illusion that we are encased in a racing darkness
that slides under our feet with the slippery stealth
of the thin layer of water evaporating off the top of the ocean
to join the ranks of droplets that gather in the sky
hanging enviously above the surface of the earth
but always in danger of slipping back down
and splashing into the great blue depths again

my mind is selfish,
my soul is not.
but my soul is weak,
consumed
by the immensity of my mind.
my self relinquished
to the battering thoughts
that traipse across my soul.
soldiers of the self,
that seize my body
in the vicious pincers
of my mind.

what is lft

of th towring giants

metal skletons tht have
grwn brittle

wth age

but we cnnot retire thm

tke them dwn nd let them
rst in peace

becus we are sure

tht as long as the rmaining piecs

stay stnding

ther is smthing tht can
nvr die

people don’t mean
they exist
in relation to others
relationships don’t mean
they do not exist
only we exist
in relation to others

if i kiss you right now, it does not mean anything. i don’t mean anything, and neither do you. we are simply touching, touching at the lips, though it might as well be our elbows or knees or ankle bones. and if that contact feels right, it does not mean. we are simply two people touching, and it is right. why shouldn’t it be that way?

i do not mean
i only exist
and that can be right
i can be right
simply because i exist

i don’t need to be apologetic for who i am. i can be right, and my rightness does not change your rightness. if i kiss you right now and it is right and i am right and you are right then we both exist. in relation to one another. simply touching, touching. and it doesn’t have to mean anything.

_____________
I loved the idea of a symphony captured on an easel
spelled out in shades squeezed out of tubes like the
horizontal expansion of a note dispersed in air but
soon I found that the canvas was too small to contain
the notes of the score and so I began to paint them
on the side of the easel itself and down the legs of
the frame onto the floor and once on the floor across
the entire length of the room and up the frame of the
door and spiraling around until I was writing the notes
of a sonata around the circumference of the doorknob
and painting tiny key signatures on the barrel of the
lock and soon I ran out of paint but there was still so
much music in me so I started to spell out the notes
with my finger until even the air in the room was
covered with notes and I inhaled the melodies and
they swirled around so the symphony could be plucked
out among the fibers inside of me and resonate in my
empty cavities filling me from the inside out with song…
_____________

sweetness overwhelms--
          like the pleasant pop of a pomegranate seed.
sweet sharp burst
                    overtaken by a flood of tangy red
                    overcomes the mouth and drips from the corner of the lips.