Engineering to the Bridge:

"Time passed, but without us. A bit like Kepler's third, I suppose."

Express your "law" another way. Throw rocks at the moon. Stone the satellite because of your own despicable sins.

I see demise in your face. There's something strange about the through lines of your crew, the yellow journalism of their spacewalk.

Posters of the wild frontier, staggered and torn, said nothing will go wrong. That sometimes death is merely the devil changing colors.

"I think not, Captain. You laugh when you should cry. You tear to pieces the pictures of the overtaken. You run from the lie detectors. Otherwise, your narrative falls apart and all you're left with is your withered mind funneling down a ****** abyss..."

richard the kind heart
walks on common soil travells
to his own full mind

Goodness, Did I now say it,
To mine self, Oh its time,
To spread mine wings of anger,
For disarray now is one of mine;
Part of living this life,
Ever mismatched by mine,
Parents who understand,
This soul is ever lost...😨

I dream my poem.
I poem my dream.

than the autumn leaves
flying off the maple trees
in late September. I
remember when she

was smooth as the
bud on the maple and
round as the kitchen
table. She’s falling faster

than the pouring rain
on my windowpane in
drops of Jupiter. I remember
her juicy and green like a

cucumber.  She's falling faster
than a roller-coaster, with her hands
high up in the air. She once was
a seat, like my chair.

What does desperation look like?
It looks like a top two sizes too small,
like a jumper on summer,
like a self inflicted scar.
It looks like an empty bottle of pills
laying on the bathroom floor,
like a smile too bright, too big,
like a phone call at night,
like a goodbye.
Desperation looks like everyday life.

years are funny aren't they?
sometimes they gallop away quickly
dancing and singing into the sunset
other times they dawdle
slowly fading, their bag weighing them down
too heavy with memories to run

this year or year and a half I should say
has never gone slower
a long list of pain
a heavy bag
does slow me down
trapping me in the past
when all I wish for is to run away

I was raised as a mother,
Never as the daughter.
A burden they carried,
Never the healer.

I was the giver,
Never the receiver—
And for one single mistake,
I became the villain.

I'm sorry I hurt you, I'm sorry you lied
I'm sorry for nights when I left your side
I'm sorry that I was the cause of your grief
Blind to your hurt as I chased my relief

I love you. I love you. You'll always be mine
I'm sorry I made you think you had to hide
I'm sorry that two years has made such a rift
I'm sorry for all the days I spent adrift

I'm sorry that I was the reason for hate
I'm sorry my back turned while you lay awake
I'm sorry my actions have led you astray
Just come back to me, I promise I'll stay

I stood up for myself then you stood up for yourself
making it clear we weren’t standing for each other

standing at the precipice
of precipitating loneliness

through a renaissance of reconnaissance
we recognized differences irreconcilable.

Every day
An overwhelming desire
Pushes me to
End it all right there
But every day
I’m dragged back
To the one reason I continue to live.

Acquittable Refined
Paris Jackson received over $3 million in allowance payments.

Industry Work

Art appraisal as life timeline evolves.

Privacy Act Included.

Succulent Garden Retreats of Soil
Copyright © kevin mathenia | Year Posted 2025

Devastated Stencil is taking a victory lap down her new boulevard

I skip, across a streaming, upon random~laid
flat and comfortable flat flagstone stepping stones,
from poet to poet, color to color, poem to poem,
Auden to Whitman, Schuyler to
myself, a dingaling notion, an errant word,
the here to there, all randoms, yet,
oval chain linked all,
a question posed, an answer unknown,
a reference to an old Italian myth,
and there, and here, a body,
comes to rest,
& also,
comes to rest…

<>

led not by the nose, but the single fingered
tip that guides across a landscape patterned
painting, lost but never a loser, each implants,
each imbibes, and the H&H^ alternatively
rumbles, pounds, vibrato burns erratically,
and the difference between a life in love,
and a life in poetry,
is not a line dividing,
but a path combining,
and the only sign
upon the road,
is never a reddened "stop!"

always just a soft lavender, so tender, inquiring,
requiring, deep thoughts and reckless abandonment,
the only guide inspired when ecstatic adrift in
a season, a sea, any one of nature's designed
unlimited
schemata's of vista creations,
      is this, simply stated:


What?
<>

postscript

6:27 Sabbath Sep 27
nyc
after a sunrise glorious, where
the windows eastern facing
make an irresistible irrational
pattern of golden yellow reflecting,
mirrors, and
after reading much,
and so I too, reflect, vista, vista,
what do you see, I see…What?

after reading a poem by James Schuyler,
entitled (yes, we are)
"What"^^

L'amour fut de tout temps un bien rude Ananké.
Si l'on ne veut pas être à la porte flanqué,
Dès qu'on aime une belle, on s'observe, on se scrute ;
On met le naturel de côté ; bête brute,
On se fait ange ; on est le nain Micromégas ;
Surtout on ne fait point chez elle de dégâts ;
On se tait, on attend, jamais on ne s'ennuie,
On trouve bon le givre et la bise et la pluie,
On n'a ni faim, ni soif, on est de droit transi ;
Un coup de dent de trop vous perd. Oyez ceci :

Un brave ogre des bois, natif de Moscovie,
Etait fort amoureux d'une fée, et l'envie
Qu'il avait d'épouser cette dame s'accrut
Au point de rendre fou ce pauvre coeur tout brut :
L'ogre, un beau jour d'hiver, peigne sa peau velue,
Se présente au palais de la fée, et salue,
Et s'annonce à l'huissier comme prince Ogrousky.
La fée avait un fils, on ne sait pas de qui.
Elle était ce jour-là sortie, et quant au mioche,
Bel enfant blond nourri de crème et de brioche,
Don fait par quelque Ulysse à cette Calypso,
Il était sous la porte et jouait au cerceau.
On laissa l'ogre et lui tout seuls dans l'antichambre.
Comment passer le temps quand il neige en décembre.
Et quand on n'a personne avec qui dire un mot ?
L'ogre se mit alors à croquer le marmot.
C'est très simple. Pourtant c'est aller un peu vite,
Même lorsqu'on est ogre et qu'on est moscovite,
Que de gober ainsi les mioches du prochain.
Le bâillement d'un ogre est frère de la faim.
Quand la dame rentra, plus d'enfant. On s'informe.
La fée avise l'ogre avec sa bouche énorme.
As-tu vu, cria-t-elle, un bel enfant que j'ai ?
Le bon ogre naïf lui dit : Je l'ai mangé.

Or, c'était maladroit. Vous qui cherchez à plaire,
Jugez ce que devint l'ogre devant la mère
Furieuse qu'il eût soupé de son dauphin.
Que l'exemple vous serve ; aimez, mais soyez fin ;
Adorez votre belle, et soyez plein d'astuce ;
N'allez pas lui manger, comme cet ogre russe,
Son enfant, ou marcher sur la patte à son chien.

It’s almost been a year—
a year since I last saw you smile,
since I talked with you,
since I heard your voice,

A year of crying,
a year of trying to understand,
a year of sinking into silence and grief—
a year since you breathed.

i don't think about you anymore.
except when i become
my own lowest point.
you cross my mind then.
briefly,
grazing the edges
of my reality,
impersonating a friend.

but i don't need you anymore.
so, every time you knock,
trying to sell,
wearing your shiny labels
like a badge,
i'll shut the door in your face
and let the night take you back
to the abyss you crawled out from,
veiled in shame.

Non popolo arabo, non popolo balcanico, non popolo antico
ma nazione vivente, ma nazione europea:
e cosa sei? Terra di infanti, affamati, corrotti,
governanti impiegati di agrari, prefetti codini,
avvocatucci unti di brillantina e i piedi sporchi,
funzionari liberali carogne come gli zii bigotti,
una caserma, un seminario, una spiaggia libera, un casino!
Milioni di piccoli borghesi come milioni di porci
pascolano sospingendosi sotto gli illesi palazzotti,
tra case coloniali scrostate ormai come chiese.
Proprio perché tu sei esistita, ora non esisti,
proprio perché fosti cosciente, sei incosciente.
E solo perché sei cattolica, non puoi pensare
che il tuo male è tutto male: colpa di ogni male.
Sprofonda in questo tuo bel mare, libera il mondo.

To you a Dusty Carpenter,                         
 
To me a Shining Light.      

 
To you a bloodied, nail pierced wrist.      

 
To me an arm of might!

 
To you a Gentle Prince of Peace.  

 
To me an awesome sight!   

 
To each of us the opposite.                       


And yet We both are right!

She carries the night’s constellations,
scattered across her face—
a sign, perhaps,
that even Heaven leaned in too close.

Her eyes spark,
not gentle, not tame,
but like the charge in the air
before lightning strikes.

To love her
is to be burned,
and to be blessed.

-Buen conde Fernán González,   el rey envía por vos,
que vayades a las cortes   que se hacen en León,
que si vos allá vais, conde,   daros han buen galardón:
daros han a Palenzuela   y a Palencia la mayor,
daros han las nueve villas,   con ellas a Carrión;
daros han a Torquemada,   la torre de Mormojón;
buen conde, si allá no ides,   daros hían por traidor.
Allí respondiera el conde   y dijera esta razón:
-Mensajero eres, amigo;   no mereces culpa, no;
que yo no he miedo al rey,   ni a cuantos con él son;
Villas y castillos tengo,   todos a mi mandar son:
de ellos me dejó mi padre,   de ellos me ganara yo;
las que me dejó el mi padre   poblélas de ricos hombres,
las que me ganara yo   poblélas de labradores;
quien no tenía más que un buey,   dábale otro, que eran dos;
al que casaba su hija   doile yo muy rico don;
cada día que amanece   por mí hacen oración,
no la hacían por el rey,   que no lo merece, no,
él les puso muchos pechos   y quitáraselos yo.

Round the wagons,
and call on the dogs.

For there is fury in that mist,
there is malice in that fog.

Arm yourselves wisely.
Shoulder steady, breath slow,
give in to eye’s end.

Shower sky with shot,
And do so
with fatal intent.

Line, volley and rising smoke
Un-surreptitious spending of saltpeter,
leaves quiet rise to billowing choke.

Loosen formation
Send scouts up ahead
“How many the count?”

“Report:
none dead.”

“How can this be
we took distance,
aimed well
And still count you no heads?”

“Sir,
machinations of the mind,
maybe it was instead”.

I’m glad there’s a touch of chaos
woven into our story.
A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor
and this way,
we’ll always know
that what we share is real.
Because from the very beginning,
it was worth fighting for.

Quedó fijo su peso:
un platillo en el cieno;
un platillo en el cielo.

I miss his golden brown eyes
Alight in the sunshine
Sparkling with traces of light

I've cried over those eyes
Whispering,
"They glow"
Tears dripping salty and bright

kids march to school
merry, hands linked,
socks strangling calves,
backpacks swelling with milk teeth,
dangerous smiles.
in the centre they stand
frondesce shivering overhead,
buttress roots clutching earth
like they know what’s coming.
bags dropped in a ring,
offerings to something older
than the walls they study in.
light fractures komorebi
and in its faded gold
i see pareidolia grinning
from the leaves.
i keep the temple.
the trunks sway in a rhythm
older than speech.
a faraway tree warns
don’t take pride in the faces
power is the thing they can’t hold.
if, my friend, you see the tree throw
know they are across the ocean.
owls, fat with promises,
every five years
stuff a new child’s face
into the stump’s rot
and call it a future.
the old tree votes unanimously
to shed its skin once more
they call it progress,
call the rot reform.
loosen your roots
the wind doesn’t care
which children
it strips for kindling.

Hell carries my blood—
As I am a puzzle that brings
Confusion
To one-track minds
That would quickly turn their
Backs to rescue their views.
A lost cause—that’s how
I stain their eye,
A lost child in need of saving,
But only if the points
Are earned and I am
Thrown away.

In another universe,
they sway hand in hand.
Dancing on moon dust,
In a silver dreamland.
Stars hum their blessing,
the Earth fades from view,
two souls in forever,
where love feels brand new.
No gravity binds them, no ending, no soon just endless soft laughter, dancing on the moon.

Your side-eye, a gleam,
Through paper, book, and tea.
Bat-like ultrasound stalking,
Not your prey—too busy to hide.
Catch me, yet my predator
burns in daylight?

The seasons, they are changing                                                         ­ you  can  see it everywhere                                                       ­                        I  don't  think that it's strange                                                          ­      you  can smell it in the air                                                              ­   Leaves  are  gently falling                                                                   into  piles on the ground                                                           ­                          In  colors so enticing                                                         ­                   of  yellows, rust and brown                                                            ­                The days are getting colder                                                           ­       and  nighttime comes so soon                                                             ­  The  school kids are one year older                                                           and  are learning about the moon                                                             ­       The  teens are playing football                                                         ­     while  all  the girls cheer                                                            ­               I  love the signs of fall                                                             ­                      and  I'm so glad it's here

When I first met Skully,
I was an ingenue in a silly fragile plastic body--
a nursery flat, a starter bed,
not yet Anne Of Queer Gables
magnificently not giving a ****.

Back then,
I believed that Skully was stuffed like a bell pepper,
jammed to bursting with thoughts, dreams and
wisdom on every subject;
I didn't know, as we lay together under the ceiling fan,
that he was as vacant and distant as outer space.

He PEZed me kisses, bought me roomsful of useless junk,
and twisted me silly like a bonsai tree.
I let him.
Daydream starlets and archery targets both have curves,
and sit still for the incoming--
I spent a decade with Skully that way,
as if I'd done it with a porcupine and was proud of the damage.

Now, he sits like an unfortunate date brought to dinner--
big-eyed as a girl, smiling too much,
and adding nothing to the conversation.
Still, I can't bear to throw him out,
and so the dogs lug him around like a trophy,
scoring and striping him with their joyful teeth marks
and losing his mandible under the fold-out sofa.

My girlfriends tolerate him.
After all, he's dead, and won't start any stupid crap about threesomes.
The next door kids ask for him sometimes,
and they bowl him at empty pop bottles in the driveway.
I confess, though,
that late at night, when it's stormy, and I'm alone,
I pause before bouncing him down the basement stairs, and I say,

"Thank you, Skully,
for keeping me from having to be alone
in the years before I bloomed into my need for heart, flesh, soul,
and not just solid bone."
Then I lay one on his grinning kisser
and even add a little tongue
just to tease him
for the lack that made me leave him like a southbound bird

white turns to red
blood covers me.
Thick Hot and Persistent
i'm drowning within
consumed by my own sins
the pool grows,
and with it my disdain is too
I can't cope,
i cant escape
It's within me.