QST Oct 2015
“Our schizophrenic societies progress by knowledge but survive on inspiration derived from the very beliefs which that knowledge erodes.” - Edward O. Wilson
QST Oct 2015
Just beyond the crest of the mountain's white shawl
the sea turned suddenly jaundiced,

a weighed stillness, not quite your own,
ascended, and even the white sail

and mast lingered motionless,
in a calm that bore no calmness at all.

And for what must have been the lengthiest
of moments you obscured, an instance of years,

captivated by the sinewy white strand
in your mind, its form swaying,

tearing the fabric of the shore,
subduing grains of sand and crumbled shells,

as fainted memories scurried into your vain, terse thoughts
which suddenly felt as though they were

made to be forgotten all along, something
stolen from the set of someone else's epic.

And years later you would just remember
how it was you were pulled apart,

or what force it was that drifted you
with the strength of a tide bringing you to safety,

or how the wave at once lifted, lifted,
like a needle from a phonograph

above the roofs of trees still trembling;
and when you looked up again

it was through white strokes of clouds
spurred across the sky

the light fragrance of sea breeze
leaking through your pores,

beyond which the world shone as blue
and peaceful as it ever would again.
Inspired by Greg Watson's "Tornado" - some form of an imitation.
QST Oct 2015
The crash left an autograph,
below my shoulder but permanent,

precipitating on a needle
softened by fog,

my abstract reality,
then seemed concrete.
QST Oct 2015
I tried to force a smile as the candid flash blinded my eyes
and everyone else's.
The wax was melting and dripping on the freshly-made chocolate frosting.
Their embraces felt like paper
and the realest thing in the room was the reality show playing on her TV,
which was thicker than her.
The blurry images and badly-timed voiceovers conformed
to the incoherence of the room.
The forced lightness of the aura engulfed heavy thoughts,
restricting them.
QST Aug 2015
People would rather have the void as purpose,
than be void of purpose.
On Human Nature is a book written by Edward O. Wilson. As I was reading Chapter 8, "Religion", a particular expression caught my attention. They are not my words! They are Wilson's. I just re-phrased them. Thought I'd share this thought.
QST Aug 2015
i sip my tea,
too sweet
for the riddle i disclose.

i storm through the woods,
and think for a moment
perhaps instinctively now.

i glance at the wings of a crow
and the dew drops on the branches.
i see her name on fallen tree trunks,
or in a sapling 's cavity.

i like snow globes,
paint,
the smell of old paper,
the taste of ginger
and the verse of Shakespeare.

she complies with these choices,
but in an ingenuous way which turns them into manners of a child.

i shall remain in her,
not in myself,
but i perceive myself less in her myth than in many others or in the infinite combinations of a piano scale.

i tried to rid myself of her,
and went from the tales of the present to the anecdotes of grief and passion,
but those fantasies belong to her.
Partially inspired by Jorge Luis Borges, "Borges and I".

— The End —