I remember sitting on the dock
in the summer.
The sky was too deep for stars.
Gentle lightning struck the mountains beyond
the lake, shadowing
out every stress of my existence
with pure energy.
I have no wisdom from those moments.
I remember only the peace of floating idly.
There was no need for thunder.
There was no need for rippling in the water.
There was no need for the distant calls of the loons.
There was only the simple silence
and my brain’s imagination of the chaotic show
that may or may not come.
The world outside me had fallen into
an infinite vastness
between each distant fractal of light.
I am not a religious person.
I don’t believe in God,
and I think divinity is subjective.
But I’ve always believed in the entropy of nature
as it delicately chooses leaves
to twirl in a pending storm
like a quantum fate.
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 4:37 PM UTC
Dusk is a named fish;
a coy koi stinging the sky
with its timid tail.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 10:27 PM UTC
Sing slowly with heart.
The world will wait for us all;
together, on fire.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 10:26 PM UTC
Blank pages are the most aggravating aspect of writing. A dead tree, defiled by human interest, can apparently taunt quite well. I want to shred it--to rip it and throw it away. My carnal urge is to destroy possibility. But why? Fear. Waste. Boredom. Ongoing projects are boon to my blank pages. That's why all of my blocks of thought begin so atrociously.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 12:05 AM UTC
There is a moment on the cusp
of a decision which may fork futures
in which anxiety extends its jolting
grasp so firmly that all realities
pale and flicker.
"TO BE GREAT."
"TO BE HAPPY."
My mantras.
And yet the ghost of such essence hovers
about me and grows stronger with my
resolve.
Anxiety is the paradox of sound thinking.
And yet, it is also a thing
given a name
so that it may be driven
away.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
The wind gossips.
A bush of roses, crimson,
explodes into the air
and carries to the feet of
every woman in need
a scent of hope.
They won't turn black,
and if they receive acceptable
amounts of water
and finite amounts of ****** unsensible behavior,
they will see many years of flourish.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
Seeping
at the end.
I'm inbetween places
and drunk and just sad.
But I wouldn't be letting you in
if I wasn't the least bit
happy, too.
And I am.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC
Too many ages ago the earth stopped
moving for a day
and shards of time in the stones
began pointing North instead of South.
I am a rock, too—
pointing and never faltering
but maybe soon
when time stops again for a moment and shifts
everything
will twist like a compass suddenly spinning
south;
I will stop and move in a new direction
because everything static is hopeless.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
I dare you to write
poetry that breaks the rules.
Haiku? Sonnet? **** it.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 8:28 AM UTC
It's not everything; to sit and watch the world
shift between abstractions is like sleep.
Life's not love.
Life's not wisdom.
Life's not nature.
Life's not anything
but a blue-brown paper bag to carry your thoughts
because there is no where else to put them.
I wouldn't say ironic. We aren't really trying to discover
secrets. It's not about that.
You can sit in swamp musk and find it
after realizing the world is not so disgusting,
but that we are.
It's about coping with yourself
and all of your ****
biting ankles;
sewing shoes together;
selling the ridiculously semi-sentimental trinkets
your parents gave you and making some cash;
buying hookers;
taking them to the park with your dog;
watching your dog find happiness
and knowing you'll always just be
almost there.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC