I watched you fall out of love.
Slowly, then gradually,
then all at once.
Only now am I realizing it;
everything about you drifted
into a space I could no longer reach.
I watched as your eyes changed with the seasons -
your vibrant summer glance
turned cold and gloomy with the autumn breeze.
Your hands, once warm and tight,
loosened with your smile.
It was no longer firm and gleaming,
but rather forced in a dead straight line
laced with words so harsh they mimicked the sharpness of
And your laugh,
oh that laugh,
no longer echoed in my mind with such simplicity;
never was it once again renewed or reheard,
just replayed over
before it faded backwards through my ears,
past my skull,
to the hairs on my neck
which no longer showed any signs of your lips.
Sincere sighs of wonder
became solid sighs of impatience.
Slowly, but surely,
your tired brown eyes and the heaviness of your stride,
said everything you didn't have to say.
Slowly, but surely,
your stare became dull
and your embrace no longer wrapped me with comfort.
Slowly, but surely,
your lips no longer tasted of fresh mint love,
that I memorized oh so well.
There was always too much on the line,
and even though I tried
and hold onto something,
I always came up empty
like the void in my chest that grew
every single time
I watched you fall out of love
Fashion this as liquor to give spirit to a song in write.
Seen seldom to weigh words at play in search,
sewn expensive for time spent in trust and recite.
Penciling not for profit so rhythmic this may show.
Find in the presence to open and reflect our woes.
Only prescription for uncommon those in write.
A same those who compose.
This on display is the compromise
of sheltered dreams ~ and the soul,
of rhythm in gentle prose.
This is the allure of the jewel of life.
Sent as promise a same a wish.
Stem those genes and make heavy this vision ~
and prayers in might.
These are our rays made ink,
to weigh the pressures of waves
constant in cycle, to detract from nature’s
Heavenly sight. Lost we shall dream
and ever so patiently grow old but in heart live bold.
Rugs were in Persia mathematically
correct and with an Indian craft
colorful, Heaven sent. Only captured in
a metaphor this day, so men do master,
so simple this way. Simple this as to
measure the years past, shudder away
tears, for the river purifies our passions
commandeered. So culture our gardens
to prosper and replenish, in the green
untamed, and natural in wonder,
Today we thimble a sew for tomorrow,
for our craft is spared only to simple ~
ness of editing, not journeyed journals
to an ever-changing composition
Perhaps unfamiliar this vest, this
life. Sample the living, in books that
inspire. Dismal I think the desire to
purify a pen in this heavy practice, a
dance an art. Time lends a flavor,
marinating appealing to a fashion so
Always calm to prolong righteous
reason, modern making, yet captured
still as storytelling. Uncommon to cues,
but refreshing at leisure, is now a
computer who makes simple what once
was wasted time. Measures made in
this art are laborious, the passion is for
the pen, reel it in as your tool, rations
will in turn ~ give as a well to nature
and sow, the seed of the write.
Refinement ~ un-forsaken, notes of
detail, must reinvent and inscribe in
ink. The bank of intuition lay tender as
our diction. Replenish in the soil of our
native grounds to seed another tool, the
luxury of our lingo. For inspirations
may befriend or become uncharted if
left in the cold. Sold but without a
surrender to all integrity, we will call
for many souls to ship and receive what
Forefathers intended. In over our
heads, over watering our behaviors,
half unknowingly over diluting our
mental treasures, is this the liquor of
life, all too fancy in measure but it was
the tea of rebellion ~ and so I toast ~
to a drink tonight.
Inherent as memories of a generation
now surely within time, we will fill the
promise within crafted lines, and file
away ~ many promises ~ many
revisions, many times. In spoil we shall
not surrender our bounty of honesty and
wisdom, so gray in years we
mend. Dent our self-serving self ~
respect, make and justify the wheel in
role common. Like a beard in keep,
intention is relevant. Surely women
refine makeup as to show beauty in
character. Thus what we intend to
refine is an endeavor to unwrinkled and
celebrate the qualities of growing
old. Time is of new defining, for the
times are naturally at all times ~ in
ritual of change.
Memories to grace the gift of sight are
the shades to carry our reflections
away. One, who trusts and so cares, lay
in the daydream of light. In a wish sent
salient, reference to eyes unveiled,
patiently as a seed shall ripen, the
flavors of life will flower in springs
day. We hanger thus shelter, the rags
made clothes, best when leather to
weather firm and tight.
Regift the promise, to harness the wind
and make words potent as those before
did without regret. Today in general we
lean and conform on the fundamentals,
too disciplined, mirror of stale
literature. Similar to wood varnished
but without the stains of life. First
revision is not for giving, only what is
taken, luxury of time. Color your copies
of the wood you talk in and pencil in
your pressures to relieve the pain,
simple ~ ness and cold feet lay sold, as
buttered bread to fill. But imperfect, so
forthcoming, wills the literature of today
finding promise in ceremony by
charting drafts and revisions to send in
message to those young in read.
This voyage is regretfully gentle as our host
made monumental any verse, so breathe
within the soul and hearts of men, to
find new styles to milk the mind of
reason. Leafs from the tree of intuition
censure the picture, sell in the filter of
Freedoms fight, not first drafts ready
Battered but purely by pace and
meager beginnings, the wave of
procurement in the arts of linguistics
will saddle and shelter the idea
profound. Don’t toss away the raisin of
a pen in hand, for we lean to easily in
bits and bytes. Promise of Heaven’s
pennies falling in rhythm will sing
tonight. Majestic in find, common in ground,
gift a find, in leisure, in time. Gather
they guard and uphold the greater good,
not to entertain but inspire. Just as
ones soul is when right. Humbled in
behaviors so chips in clever may
fall. But poker face we have
become, once centered in earnest of
essays in rent, now owners of ideas
embellished ~ in verse ~ our native
treasures. Second, we charter the raft
of ideas in mend, to conceive works so
aspiring as the poets and linguists of
historic claim. So riddled ~ so
mastered. Surely a new discontent shall
offer, in a pebble of examples met, with
practice and structure our youth will
Demand must be patient, for
procurement in the arts of linguistics
will nurture and mother our future
Leaders to a discipline in their own
right. Never forget the days of past
generations for they marveled in the
arts ~ and in rain it falls in our hands ~
to luster and defend. Poetics are too
political if not in share. Protection of
this is how Freedom was rung. The
hungry will maintain its resolve and
rightfully so. Riddled as sow ~ these
lentils, this meal, these feathers, this ink
shall fuel the fire. A dance in the
pillows of night shall brush the painting
in the autumn of one’s days. Flaccid in
so many ways. Glorified by the shadows of protection,
but only one day is stored for this
intention. Freedom is in the work
engraved beside it, within it, sharing we
celebrate it, and our Brave provide
it. Celebration comes by way of duty
and hard work, and it rises high and
early in the dawn. Yes, on the Fourth
Day of July. Food and pleasures are
gifts for price paid by our Soldiers and
Agencies who protect and defend our
freedom and intelligence, and calmly
watch over it as we carry along. All
under the calm watch of Gods
umbrella. Future dreams are blessed a
same, for all under this Flag by notion
alone, seam and dress and hence sail
with solemn truth. Trusting the winds of
reason to keep us Forever Free and on
course to replenish the soil, for those
young in years. Students in the day
dream of life are in the send to allow
their pen to charter this peaceful but
daunting Nation to one of peace and
prosperity. Willingly and calm the Lion
stares afar from American shores,
Democratic in nature and always
reinventing in this idea we call ~ the
once, i knew these things
I watched your temple collect dust
As sand fell from your cracking walls,
And I understood the meaning of temporary,
Yet knew I could not raise my head
To pass through your roof or see through your windowpanes,
For they were both stained and yellowed.
I heard the sudden melody shake through your rooms,
Passing through like summer’s sweet light,
As if it could inhabit my heart,
But I was not persuaded,
For I knew how it breaks apart so easily
As plates on dirty marble.
I tasted your barren earth, self-aware, reminiscent
Of days lost and hours spent in murky silence,
Motionless and curling about in the pit of my stomach,
As copious and fulfilling as the golden radiance of your sun,
The rays of which were packed tightly to fill the void
That I knew could not grow more empty.
I could smell your weary autumn air, exhumed with rain,
Your drains filled and your streets flooded,
And when your glow came crashing out from above the clouds,
And I stayed outside your house, in doubt,
For I knew that your deluge would reach me,
Though I had built my dam.
I watched your horizon transition from blue to orange and back,
Each shade passing slowly onward,
And when you went, I knew it would be a momentary event,
As quick and fleeting as cut wicks
From candles that keep the same colours as your skies
Before the wind blows them into smoke.
I heard your rumbling thunder, resounding in the distance,
Your sharp crack and your brief wave
As the air vibrated in agitation for an instant,
But I shook for far longer,
For your storm lingered inside of my mind,
Though I knew that it would end.
I tasted the corporeal expanse between skin and sheet,
The chemical heat of two pulsing, beating shells,
The salty sweat of obligation and desire,
Embodied and as physical as stones in a swift riverbed,
And so my thoughts turned to the beauty of rushing water,
For I knew that love could be neither curse nor promise.
I could smell the mountain pines, covered in snow,
Perched high up on resonant peaks,
Each a slim rod, forming banks of antennas,
Pointing out to the universe,
And I knew that I too was both stem and root,
Though thoughts of death still made me shake.
Once, I knew these things,
And I did not feel the weight of darkness.
But I was a child then,
And I am not a child now,
And now I am not certain of anything.
Under the weight of this dawning light,
there is nothing left but a hollow soul.
I gave everything I had for a glimpse of the future,
a taste of the place we will soon call home.
Lovers and friends have withered away.
Tormented with life I stay the same the wrinkles of age have left me untouched.
Signatures in blood will leave your veins dry.
All the vibrant colors and shades that fill in the cryptic grey are left meaningless
when walking down desolated roads.
These grains of sand fall motionless, tormenting time and the reapers call,
trapped in shadows and lost in the essence of sanity.
Overwhelmed with desire for the crimson flow, I’m alone in this world a wanderer.
As the autumn leaves blow a youth in the mirror and a corpse deep down inside,
a glimpse of the future and a withering past tormented with a life,
that will always last.
We descendents of the grave eternal
But I the betrayed below heaven’s gate
Thy body shall be left decayed
as the tormenting vultures watch from above
My skin begins to crawl as maggots feast upon my flesh
Blessed is the raven among doves
for grim is his world but clings to that he loves
Autumn burns as I lie beneath the crescent moon and as ashes become thy fate
death shall grin.
this is for the silence that speaks in our stead
for the darkness breached from my gaze to yours
for the taste of your hair in my hands
and for the breath that doesn’t know who it belongs to
this is for the night falling like autumn leaves
and the morning rising bare-limbed and beautiful
this is for that first conversation
when you put a defibrillator to my chest without ever yelling clear!
I swear it was all I could do to keep my knees from folding to the floor
when you looked at me like a shot of morphine
and spoke that sweet Siren song
girl I jumped in knowing I couldn’t swim
hoping the current would carry me closer
but instead it whirlpooled me into you
and I’ve been damn dizzy ever since
so its no wonder a night never dies
without me in your thighs
and you’re always gone before the sun rises
and I’m left to clean up this mess in my chest
and pack up these bones for when you need them again.
Your psychopathic sleep hours tick by slowly,
dreamless time, unconscious to the world -
a temporary death each night. Do you know
how much you hurt me? I suppose you do.
I crumbled like the flaky leaves in autumn
underneath your feet, and fell for another boy
eventually. You moved away, and now sleep undisturbed
with another girl. She must sleep soundly too,
oblivious to your reputation, the way you once ate
fields of girls as though you were a swarm of summer locusts.
In yellow lamplight a boy is pulling a green knit sweater over
his head. It is winter, maybe late autumn. The branches are
bare and his room is cold. He is forcing his feet into a battered
pair of Converse with frayed dirty laces that he never unties.
On the stereo, Bob Dylan sings a song about a girl from Canada;
the boy, pushing his arms into the sleeves of a blue jacket far
too thin for the weather, dreams of the blondest girl he ever
knew and the way she waved goodbye. His footsteps echo
down the wooden staircase, follow him out the backdoor. The
cold stings his cheeks, makes itself tangible with each exhale,
his thighs turning pink through their layer of corduroy. With
his headphones on he doesn’t hear a sound, his pathway lit by
the lights from other houses. Television screens flickering in
the windows. The pond by the high school looks frozen over,
but he knows the layer is likely not thick enough to hold him.
He cuts across the dead of the Little League field, taking his
hand out of his pocket to run his fingers along the grooves of
the rusted out chain link fence. The weatherman has promised
snow, and the boy’s heart is bubbling with hope that the
schools will stay closed in the morning. He is thinking about
when he was little, digging out shelters in the snows banks
with his sister, and how in this tiny caverns he felt he could live
forever, anonymous and alone. He is thinking about what his
mother meant when she told him he was born old. A cat runs
down a driveway, a man walks his large black dog, a shivering
couple splits a cigarette on their front porch. The boys is
looking down the road, thinking about how no one is ever
there when you want them to be. He stops in front of her
house, jams his hands a little deeper into his pockets, looks up
at her bedroom. There she is, sitting at her desk, perfect
posture, reading from a hardback book with fairies dancing on
the cover. He pays attention to the hollow feeling of his chest,
hoping to excavate some kind of courage, some kind of
confirmation that fourteen years of life has amounted to this.
He imagines throwing a stone, but sighs instead, and turning
on his heels walks back home. Somewhere an airplane blinks
overhead, snowflakes making their first ominous descent into
the atmosphere. When he gets home the house is dark, his
parents gone to bed. In his room he empties his pocket of loose
change onto the top of his dresser, and sits down on his bed.
Hands clasped between his knees, he chews his lips, and takes
momentary joy at the feeling of sadness creeping into this
Woke me up
Last stop he called
End of the line
The not so secret
Graveyards of movement
Edge of where sleep can
Time unlike movement
Blink and a year has passed
Suddenly after a month in a new city
Your parents are old
Or your children are grown
Either way the radio no longer plays
Music you can recognize
Yet the trains
Do not change much
Marking out time
One rocking lullaby at a time
Finally the long walk home.
Past the bar
Which I will end up grabbing a round in
Before heading across the street
And typing up this weekend’s poems
Hard decision figuring out that order
New York is almost welcoming
With downcast eyes
And screaming sirens
When compared to the growing limp
My father carries himself with
Seeing age claim those we love
Is a broken promise
Fractured while we were off
Spending days like easy dollars
Until one wakes to frost
On youths windows,
The sudden knowledge
That autumn, is over
Displayed in brittleness
Of your fathers bones
It was autumn
And like the leaves fall to the ground
I fell for you
Dressed in your
Burnt oranges and light browns
Those skintight sweaters and ankle boots
With their zippers undone and patterns exposed
Did I ever stand a chance?
It was autumn
And like the Earth falls into the sun
Your gravity pulled me in
Dressed in all
Your little giggles and slight smiles
Those hazel eyes averting mine
And your hand that would fit so well intertwined
Did I ever stand a chance?
I just wanted to stop you
When you said you can’t
And hold you
Until you knew you could
But I can’t
And I never could