Even the sun will die, my dear.
Burning as it’s ending,
ending as it’s giving,
giving as it’s shining,
shining as it's burning,
and burning as it’s ending.
Before the world goes black,
I want you to die like the sun.
Be beautiful and broken and bright.
All to suspend the darkness,
even just for a moment longer.
Darling, I want you to die like the sun.
Jun 7, 2022
Jun 7, 2022 at 12:46 AM UTC
She is a sunflower -
a fully alive homeland.
Grown to bloom into the dust,
she follows the sun.
Each stroke reminding me how it feels to be alive.
And that is hard to find.
May 11, 2022
May 11, 2022 at 8:43 PM UTC
Tick
Can you hear the time?
As her pencil – tap, tap, taps – on the desk,
history drones on in the background. She
wishes for time to wisp itself away, as her
eyes chase the clock around the bend.
Tock
It passes by.
The clacking and clambering of high heels
on pavement announce the haste in her
heart. Five more minutes – just five more
minutes – until her life tumbles before it
begins. Time drips down her spine; it sends
a shiver back up it. Coffee drips down her
arm.
Tick
It never stops.
His time is measured in meters and dashes.
He runs circles to get to the end. While he
races the runners, he races the time, trying
to beat counting at its own game.
Tock
Why won’t it stop?
A mother jolts awake to the sound of wails.
“2:38am.” Dragging her body out of a
cloud, she wishes for time to sleep through
the night. She wishes for time long gone.
Tick
What if it stops?
The power goes out in a storm overnight,
and the clocks begin to flash. A father
meanders through the house that night to
mend each blinking beacon before his kids
awaken, suspended in time.
Tock
Please don’t stop.
With these people concerned about time,
you probably glanced down at your watch.
Do you have enough time to make it to the
next meaningless task?
Tick
How much is left?
How do you feel about killing time? We’re
going to die, and we’re running out of time.
Yet, as time murders you, you ****** time.
Tock
What time is it?
The world goes on, and it will happen again.
Tick
Once at the beginning.
As her pencil – tap, tap, taps – on the desk,
history drones on in the background. She
wishes for time to wisp itself away, as her
eyes race the clock around the bend.
Tock
Can you hear the end?
May 9, 2022
May 9, 2022 at 12:30 AM UTC
When the sirens come on,
don’t remain above ground.
Your dad will probably stay and watch. He
keeps the front door wide open. He invites
those gathering winds for a nightcap.
You must
befriend the lonely
creaks as you descend.
(If you don’t have a basement,
just get as low as you can.
Lie down in a ditch.
Crawl into something concrete.
Hit rock bottom.
Drop to the floor. Anything
is better than a grave.)
You’ll want to turn on the TV,
or a radio,
or your intuition.
If it gets too bad,
or if dad never comes down,
or if the wind decides to stay for dessert,
curl up just as you did
when you wandered into this world
on your hands and knees, with the back
of your heels on your **** forehead
to the ground, and cover your head
with your hands. Almost
like you’re praying.
May 9, 2022
May 9, 2022 at 12:21 AM UTC
Under its frigid, dusty surface,
Mars is humming.
Alien music.
The Martian song that never ends.
The first few months of listening
were worryingly quiet.
A harrowing descent
to a flat, featureless expanse.
It’s a waiting game,
a slow march.
Streams of charged particles,
turbulence in solar winds,
a sudden release,
and the marsquakes roll in.
A series of deep slashes,
pockets of magma,
the movement of molten rock,
a seismic signal,
the mysterious pulse,
the quiet, constant drone,
the source remains unknown.
The invisible conductor
of this magnetic orchestra
is likely high above
those Martian rumbles.
Your voice is a mix of frequencies,
and if one matches the resonance of a bell,
your shouts can set it ringing.
May 9, 2022
May 9, 2022 at 12:19 AM UTC
Novel coronavirus.
Travelers in motion.
Spewing the virus.
One fervent hope
in danger of being dashed.
Undocumented carriers.
86% of all infections.
These people are the major drivers.
The ones who facilitated the spread.
Unseen transmission.
Unseen spread.
Much harder to stomp.
The longer the period of silent viral shedding,
the more difficult it is to control the outbreak.
Containment is nearly not possible.
May 9, 2022
May 9, 2022 at 12:18 AM UTC
The crusts of wheat bread
will turn my hair curly.
I believe this
because of Papa Don.
It’s because of him that I believe
in the power of Tex-Mex and the magic
of the Texas Rangers. He loved
both the same, and all nine children
even more. He never forgot the name –
or the First Communion –
of every one of his twenty-three
grandchildren. He loved me from afar,
but every reunion made me feel his love
like it was always up close.
He won’t be at my graduation.
Degenerative heart failure
stole his life before all the Diet Cokes could.
His heart, his heroic heart.
This past Christmas, he fell dreamlessly onto the floor.
May 9, 2022
May 9, 2022 at 12:16 AM UTC
Ducks have secret blue feathers
beneath their wings. They’re
called speculum feathers.
I like to call them mirror
wings or looking feathers.
Birds use them to find
their flock. To find other birds
like them. To fall in love. This
morning, I sat alone on a dock, and
I watched two swimming ducks who were
showing their speculum feathers. Were they lost?
Were they making love? Maybe the answer is
both. Or neither. They ruffled their wings
in unison, and they circled the pond like
they were dancing. Their light bounced
and reflected onto my shadow. I tried to
feed them half-grapes, but they were
too happy to let me be happy with them
May 9, 2022
May 9, 2022 at 12:15 AM UTC
Okoboji’s wave-crashing lullaby
baptized me whole.
Her voice sounds just like
my grandmother’s missing
morning-hum.
It echoes like a ripple,
and it rings in far-off frequencies.
I run off the dock –
one hundred and thirty-six feet deep.
She will catch me.
She has let me fall.
Born from a blue-water lake,
I collected Her drops in my eyes.
She wanted me to be my own reservoir.
May 9, 2022
May 9, 2022 at 12:13 AM UTC