melancholy wind
moans off the hilltop
grass responds in rhythm
clouds wheel across the landscape
leaving figment message
along the ground
bring visions to mind
which aren’t even mine
change unlike time
moves back and forward
the myth of now
shapes history past
fates arise in retrospect
regret is futures toil
chaotic blows the sand
when scene inside the storm
remove yourself
to see yourself
the patterns that are borne
the flow and ebb
that has no care
to minuscule endeavors
yet we knit and purl
at Indra's net
unconscious to
the state of grace
to which we aim
unerring

My baby's born
a blank page

at first, no words graze
his pale bloated belly

fresh from a nap
he giggles mindlessly
as computer keys
tickle him rudely
their dark impressions clumped
just above his knotted navel

he will not mind
as I fold him neatly into thirds
slip him into
a number ten envelope
drop him in a mailbox
en route to an editor
whose judgment will not be clouded
by flesh and blood
or
pride and joy

i am smoking a lucky strike clamped with old tweezers.
i am sitting on the back porch of my friends house
he is asleep. it is 2 pm. i am alone with the rooms of accumulated years.
i feel like an intruder. or maybe a burgler.

there are children next door screaming as i tap out the lucky strike into a dish full of his siblings.
i wonder if he knew them. there were 20 packed in tight.

i am wondering why i instantly personified a cigarette as male. i am worried for the implications of this.

i am hungry and still somewhat thirsty. the cigarette is drying my mouth even more but i don't have the will to rise.

a lawnmower has started up two backyards away.
i am worried for my strange superiority complex regarding suburban life.
i wonder if i am better than the mundane despite this observation.

my friends dad put his arm around me and patted me on the back. it is the most physical contact I've had with a male figure in about a year.
i hope he didn't see the discomfort.

i am writing a poem in this style because the matter of fact is all that comes to me. i am realizing i will probably never write anything worthwhile and spend my young years in the halls of retail: customer service. fast food. i will not travel the world. i will not take Polaroids of incredible things. i will only have my body to sell and the tasks that it can perform. my mind will be placed elsewhere for safekeeping. i am writing a poem in this style because i do not need to write something good. i am not a young genius. i am not a prodigy. i am smoking a lucky strike with tweezers, if that gives you any idea. i just want to write. i don't need to be beautiful. i can be an important ugly, a clunky tongued verse. a bad poem. this does not ruin me. this releases me.

She never let the sun go down
Her eyes were almonds in the spring.
Her arms were always by her side,
And when we sang her arms would swing.
But by night her lips were flamming,
A fire burnt so cold,
Her dreams were utmost frightening,
And her stories,
Not mine to be told.
She paced through life like a diamond,
Roughed out to the perfect cut.
She didn't look down,
For she felt that the ground,
would soil her back to a mut.
I held her hand for a moment,
And she smiled,
So I released.
She didn't want my help,
Just knowing I was there was all she'd need,
But then she soon fell low,
Down through the ice, water; snow.
She fell beyond my grasp,
Her smile forever last.
She walked a path on her own,
I learned I must let go.
Its every nightmare I know,
When you bargain "no",
But there they go.
Off on the path that alone she paved
..and alone she swore she'd trough.

Eyes of glass, in the ocean, deep and blue.
Like fabric of white-
worn to grey.
No where in this world are there people to shiver,
yet the people, we live without day.
No morn' to see.
No rooster to crow.
No light to show our way,
yet we as humans',
lives continue,
while our mother's love makes us okay.
There be..
there be..
moonlight..
dear be..
lukewarm water,
so in which it sway.
If I may run,
I may yonder,
for I'm a mere symbol,
a minnow.
To which will force up ponder,
if rather or not,
the fishy is gay.