loving the impossible
is a one way first class ticket
on the edge of a postal stamp
meeting the impossible
is me melting inside you
like a snowflake on your tongue
touching the impossible
an old man watching a bee
caught on the inside of a curtain
finding the impossible
on the edge of a postal stamp
I've been missing out on something
for a really long time now
it's starting to (finally) to make sense
and I'm beginning to (finally) understand our fascination
with each other
Maybe my past has been preventing me from experiencing it
Or perhaps it's my current state of body and mind
the two are so closely linked that I can't properly pry them apart.
Maybe that's why I love children
so nonthreatening and uncaring
so small and close, without a care of convention
Maybe that's why I don't know a whole lot of vital information
about myself- that apparently I SHOULD know
that apparently everybody else on this fucking planet knows
But last night I saw it
in that old hole in the wall
I saw the way she looked at him and how he looked back
I saw how couples were holding hands, getting closer
I saw friends all dancing together
and I realized that I am really bad at all this connection
I can connect to you with words, not touches
I realized that when he put his arm around my waist
and I froze and pulled away
I just couldn't, even though it might have been nice
Maybe it will be someday- maybe I will be able to let go
but for now I am aware, and that's enough
she welcomes my energy inside and gives me tea
calms my busy light without a single word
smiles at my bright aura
a tabby ginger cat purrs on a gingham cloth
blue Delft plates in a row
this was a time with no fuzzy
dimming of all goodness
a woman’s head rolls on the fine sifting sand
dry and warm
a rapier juts forward, pierces the guts of an old man
who carries a child on his back
there’s a red blanket what flies on the line
soggy and now, it’s hard to tell whose blood drips so
an elongated horn is blown from a desert hill
nobody lives in the mountains of Miranda anymore
her ghost has found voice in the echo of the brambles
her secrets still buzz in heavy hives of long ago
discovered and ravaged by trusted traitors
now hanging in clusters, newly unfound
dried corpses also hang (unmolested) in bloodwood trees
where every trace of gall is let flow in kino
the blood of Miranda flows on
she of terminalis
lives on eternal
in brook and vale and bush
in veins of progeny bee
in the crickets of the field
His mother bought the wool in skeins
with four children to clothe
knitting was so much less expensive
than buying woolens in the store
and who counted the hours spent
with the needles click clacking
plain and pearl in fancy patterns.
Every few months he would stand there
in front of his mother, hands outstretched
shoulder width apart
spindly arms and legs
holding the loop of wool
seemingly endless as he, in rhythm
with his mother, unwound the wool
onto the ball growing bigger
each length left his outstretched fingers
swaying in sync with the reeling in
at the finish, when he could go off and play
read a book, follow his early adolescent urges
running and jumping
he would imagine the balls of wool
one for an arm, the sweater, a gift for Christmas
another for the old man’s winter woolie
his ganzy as he called it
keeping his rotund figure warm
despite the bracing wind
reaching into the bones
pulling out the last remnants of summer warmth
The son is older now
and all those jumpers are gone
cast into the past, a memory
sitting and standing
in rhythm together
creation and warmth
love and the click clack of needles.
If I could move on tapered wing
By feathered flight my mind would soar
To see this world through minted eye.
The social walls that kept me out
Those haughty souls, cigars alight
I’d see behind their curtains drawn
And share the fear that fills the glass
The pompous sound from marbled hall
That drowns out noise from shantied town
I’d fly a thread so fine and strong
Connecting all from shore to shore
Gossamer winged this sound would go
The sound of love transmitted long
From soul to soul, be young or old
To resonate within us all
And each would clasp the filament bright
And feeling strong from each to each
We’d all embrace as cheek to cheek
Yes, if I could fly on tapered wing,
I’d glide through clouds of inner self
And find the light that waits within.
Great old siren
standing empty on the corner
with cracked pane milky cataracts,
dusty silk gown of cobwebs
flaking paint shadows on the dead lawn
breathing out of gaping eyes
the breath of years,
a widow with pendulous chandeliers
to tell the time whispers,
always singing with the changing weather,
expanding in the heat,
frigid bones rattling in their plaster box.
They will batter her out of existence,
as if she were made of cardboard,
a hiding place for spiders.
The years before the drugs
before the smiles
the bright times
the easy nights
But I only knew darkness so
to me it was brighter than the sun
There were nights of red bull and vodkas
of googling obsessions
and losing my personality for a weekend
There were days and days of misery
I would scream until the air in my lungs were gone
I would get down
I would run for hours
and I would feel my skin crawl
The years before the drugs I was cruel
a 13 year old girl with a razor sharp tounge
hell bent on expressing pain
any way possible
This experience isnt unique
but just because it isnt unique
doesn't mean I dont need to apologize
for the years before the drugs
What would you do to stay alive?
(Johnny get's the early warning, and rushes home to his family.)
Jenny wake up! Wake up! Ok! Ok! I'm up! It's midnight. I have to be at work in the morning honey, this better be good. What is it? There's a wa... ( Johnny's interrupted by gunshots and sirens out the window.) Come on, we don't have much time to Stay Alive. (John loading their guns)
What are you talking about John, why are you loading the guns? Whose shooting outside? (He looks her with conviction.) There is no law, it's total anarchy. We gotta go now, If we want to live Jenny, I'll explain later! Folks said it wouldn't happen in our time and it's happening honey. Grab the bags prepped for us and wake Jacie! Remember the three C's John. Cool, calm collected, Breathe baby. Now's not the time to argue Jenny. This is not a drill! The trucks loaded and the rest of our guns and supplies are packed. Ok everything's gonna be fine John I'll go wake Jacie, we've practiced this scenario before. (Jenny goes across the hall) Ok hurry Jenny, My Sister Jesse and her family are heading up north to the Kuuyi Mountains, where her husband Jimmy has a cabin he's converted into a fortress. We should be able to make it there around sunrise. Now Jenny, he says he has food and a water supply for all us. I told him we'd bring the ammo and what we have to defend from anyone trying to harm us. Your nursing will come in handy if anyone of happens to be injured. (Jenny's enters the room.) Don't worry we'll be fine Jenny. Is Jacie up and ready to go? Yes, she's just tying her shoes. Ok, we don't have much time to spare before the roads are clogged. It wont be easy but we will make it. Here take these guns Jenny we're going to need them once we get there and if we want to make it out the city. I know you don't like them because your family was taken by them but Jenny they are going to keep you, I and our baby girl Jacie alive. (Jacie walks in the room and drops her duffel bag.) Dad I'm ready. I guess all your drills really did come in handy. Are you sure you can ready Jacie, I want you to carry the automatic? Yes dad, I am 16 now, I can handle the automatic. (John smiles) Really Dad, You've been teaching me how to shoot since I was 6 years old. I know sweetheart, remember just what I told you, (Jacie in unison with her dad John) "only put your finger on the trigger when you ready to shoot" "Butterfly". (Jacie smiles) How can I forget dad. (They exchange a family hug before leaving.) OK, let's go I want everybody locked and loaded off safety with one in the chamber. (car doors shut) Dad, where are we going?
(Johnny turns the key, and the engine Roars!)
To hell if we don't pray.
What is more important? Today or the dream that awaits tomorrow?
The deforested; burnt and brittle and all gone aery
Who is more important? The empiricist or poet? Engineer or Sophist?
History recalls the fortuitous and fruitful mind
Have you found a resolution? Or are you destitution incarnate?
Too late for the body, but never for the soul
Which lamented downtrodden path do you follow?
The path paved with gold and epistemological riches
Or atone to the pith of a life in poverty?
Incessant nightmares of the daily worried abyss
What is more important? Me or you?
The view is beautiful on this night of starless and bible black
The night; eternal and sleepless epitaph
For the 21st century schizoid man,
Waiting man, Man with an Open Heart, Model Man
Indiscipline and Satori
On the wheels of an autograph and a welcoming peach tree
To 'Catch Bull at Four'
In the Court of the Crimson King
Matte Kudasai my sweet America
My adorned aphrodisiac, Columbia
Old Father Thames wrapped in the Union Jack
Aboard a white star liner forever on the stagnant sea
And with her comes the warm embrace of peace
Under her breast, an Armada of war ships and a fleet of Avro Lancasters
Aristophanes; he speaks like a Churchill smoking Winston Cigarettes
Above Mt. Olympus, flying high above the mythic Prometheus
Enabled machines of fury on wings by beings of glory
And so the story writhes in the wrinkled veins of history
Slowly buried, the worker stoic on white cotton
Is slowly forgotten
This is an ode to the workers in song
To the soldiers in line and the children still-born
This is the same old adage, motif in the narrative, warm and composed
Dedicated to who by fire, who by depleted uranium
And who by desire
Prometheus is dead
But, the vestal flame can not be ousted
The factories run all night in an electric light liturgy
For the planet
This is for Mother Gaia
And us all
Still in the dark with our broken lantern
I could drown myself in cups of coffee, in nicotine, old books, and whiskey.
But that won't make me crave you any less.
I could immerse myself in the deepest of enthralling literature, poems, a sea of colloquy,
Waves, strangling the current of my mind.
But you'd still be the resonant word.
I could listen to the sweetest of voices on repeat, golden like honey, sticky,
But my ears would only ever truly answer to yours.
Serpents tend to bite their own tails, a mythological and alchemic symbol of the cyclic nature of the universe: creation out of destruction.
But I'm not breaking my heart, loving you.
Swollen, yearning, daydreamed astray, gathered fast by night.
Curiosity deniable no more, innocence lost, hands wandered exploratory below.
Clambering desperate over themselves, those hands fell over folds of warmed flesh, over forgotten nooks and unfound crevasses, over trembling thighs and aching calves.
Astounded by the vast array of fresh delicacies, of unencountered sensations and deepest pleasures, she stood by loyal as those hands swiftly accustomed themselves to pursuing true ecstasy.
What divine rapture. What soaring heights of pleasure to ascend to. And what a delicious revelation to encounter such unimaginable ecstasy.
That twelfth year become a fourteenth, a fifteenth, a sixteenth.
And with the passing of each came a series of ever more adventurous trysts, the sorts of which Cousteau, Armstrong, and even Columbus could all be truly proud of.
Depths sounded, crevasses plundered, self’s nectars tasted and devoured, the pleasures of the flesh went unearthed.
Elaborate constructions lovingly shaped, waxed and honed, years of heady experimentation, trial and errors, fantasy and dreaming, all in the pursuit of even harder, better, faster, stronger orgasms. Perhaps it was that, or was it more a case of welcomed companionship? Ambidextrous frustration? A carnal appetite, most terrifying in its magnitude?
Isn’t it time then, you tried a little tenderness?
Be good to you.