Too far to see the death of dusk.
Too close
To feel the birth of dawn.
My heavier self knows itself
Far better
Than my lighter self.
Weight, in its multitudes,
Is one way of recognizing one's existence
Yet, in that burden,
So does the sorrow of its influence.
The weight of being,
The weight of loving,
Of regret,
Is both a realization and
A defining characteristic
Of one's self (if one is interested in such things)
Showing how true our wings,
Or lack thereof, are eternally clipped until
God decides whether we deserve them
or not.
Nov 10, 2022
Nov 10, 2022 at 1:05 PM UTC
There is a name written
In the scratched,
Snow-blown glass that
They are having trouble
Melt away.
Warm rag,
Hot breath,
Shoe,
Stone and rock,
Nothing works.
Which is true
Of most things
We do, isn't it?
Things just
Don't work.
The sleet
Won't melt
Or
The sun
Won't shine
Or
The tree
Won't cover
Or, or
Or.
What is happening,
You may ask yourself?
This lack
Of sustenance?
This step back
From nature?
Then, the passage ends.
The window
It clear, revealing the edge
Of their life
They thought they had lost forever.
Jun 15, 2022
Jun 15, 2022 at 10:56 PM UTC
Be it
That,
Or this -
We're nothing
But our words.
If true (it is),
Let them be
Beyond anyone's imagination,
Beyond a before
Where no spring
Or even love,
Could hack at it.
An expression is an act
Of the stars:
For everyone to see
Without care
Of who is seeing it.
Apr 24, 2022
Apr 24, 2022 at 1:43 AM UTC
Poem, I think,
I made
It, I,
I made it!
You said
That was it.
You said
That would be it.
Hey!
Hey!
Hey! Where are you going around that corner with your silver studs and brown taps and absentee ballots and twist tie bracelets and police misfortunes and twister twisters and that half-sister your grandpa could only whisper through whiskey-truth-breath-starlight as we laugh through the magnetic starlight deep-cone in multi-colored snow cones obsessed with how our ankles look in filters not our own, and, disconnected, possibilities, possibilities up there -
And then
We have nothing to connect to
And then
We have nothing to believe in
And then
We have nothing but a reaction
Of a reaction
Of a
Reaction
Based on based
Chaos
Of an upside-down centrism
To only
keep the balance.
Mar 25, 2022
Mar 25, 2022 at 12:04 AM UTC
All of out questions,
Their trembling hands comes out
Of its fury of
Wanting to know it all
To simply see again:
Grandma, one slipper on,
Hair a mess,
Both dogs by her lop-sided side,
Watering dead plants
In the afternoon sun.
Father, stirring grease-thick bacon
With a fork on a cast iron pan,
About to get his stomach tucked
For reasons of a few more years,
A few more days,
A few more breaths before the last.
Uncle, lost uncle, long-haired
****** willow tree legs to short and
Stumpy to reach the pavement
On the motorcycle you stole,
You couldn't afford, you borrowed,
Uncle, lost and never found Uncle.
Mother, world traveler, both eyes set
On the outstretched hand of the Southern Pacific,
The Solomon and the Coral,
Clouds your new children, roll, and rocks
Between your tanned feet,
Your sunburnt, too-tough-to-die-yet, toes.
Sister sorrow, sojourner of the mind,
Ok, see, hear this:
There will never be enough time.
North, South, West, and now the East
Is calling you again - listen;
Cypresses and Red Maples are as good
As any brother who knows your real name.
I, I,
I
Is for
Another time.
Feb 9, 2022
Feb 9, 2022 at 1:54 PM UTC
There is
Forgiveness
As easy
As
An a cupcake
Dashed'
Magic
Because you love me.
You said,
You love me.
That's what you always said.
Dec 23, 2021
Dec 23, 2021 at 1:36 AM UTC
There's another eye
That believes you
And for me,
I'm trying to forget you.
Yet,
There is no tomorrow
When I know
Your sorrow
Is the same as
What I'll be feeling
Tomorrow
Dec 23, 2021
Dec 23, 2021 at 1:27 AM UTC
Brazen past lives
I'm seeing myself
For the first time.
Last in,
Last
Out.
A scream and
A
Shout.
There we climbed
The mud timber stairs
Underneath
Hairline
Whispers and academia
Manifested stares.
The last great idea
The last great illusion
The last great poet
That never was;
That could never
Do it.
Dec 23, 2021
Dec 23, 2021 at 12:53 AM UTC
An eye dyed
The color black
Glares at me
From the side window.
I'm holding
A thing
Of orange juice and
I hate orange juice
But the eye dyed
The color black
Is indifferent
To my feelings.
It, they, the eye dyed
The color black
Only cares about
What I do
And, I presume,
Why I do it for reasons
The eye
Will never
Admit.
Answering why,
Would only
Make them
Us.
Dec 2, 2021
Dec 2, 2021 at 2:27 AM UTC
Blessed' be
The nailguns
That line the walls
Of the hot spot
Home Depots
Ready
Willing
Waiting
To hang up the stocking
Meant solely
For stuffing
Like we all are.
Oh' genesis
Oh' forefathers
Oh' saints
Of yesteryears whose
Sanitorium rituals
We base our lives in
Prove to be baseless
For our emotions
Are not met
By transparent or well-arranged
Grounds.
I, no one, see
The curbside pick up generation
Grasping at straws
For the existential tied to the national.
Get back, they say,
But come on in,
They say to others.
Discovering
Hope in the after-life
Has a 50 % chance of failure.
They opt for the present
Thus taking over
The role
Of Creator.
What could go wrong?
What could happen
When the rug becomes everything
And there is no way
To see the dust?
Dec 1, 2021
Dec 1, 2021 at 8:04 PM UTC