Think the saddest thing about this land
Is how hard it tries to live
To hold, to let go— how it
Stills in the middle of a catastrophe
How it sings
Only when no one’s about to hear
How its silence
Is never wholly true

How the clouds go by
And the suns
The crescents grow up and pass
And people—
Yet it, shuddering, remains
And how it struggles
To weave peace out its
Wavering fields

And ever-dancing cities—
The dance of a Persian woman
In shackles
How it slaughters its own flowers
In search of their seeds
How it breaks apart
In the middle of a night
In the middle of a little girl’s question
In the middle of a smile

How the maidens
Keep on hanging their dresses to dry
And children keep hunting
For helpless worms
And snows melt into grasses
Till they too sail away
Yet it, shuddering, remains

How it will gnaw away the town
It carved itself
Feast upon its own beautiful bones
How hard it struggles to stir
In its own queer death
And how it will wither
And wither, and wither
And not tire—

It is its own hateful god.

I spend too many nights thinking
Wondering, writing, dreaming
Of someone who doesn't even think of me

The spirit wriggled free
And flew
And through
The memories it knew
It grew
Anew.

So we articulate somber
Lay faceup in the watery dew
It is no longer our concern
Whatever it is you do

The cycles of sun are fleeting
They no longer enthrall us so
The moments per eternity go leaping
But we have no will to go

All of the last tears fell
Upon the grass or snow
All of the goodbyes sail
all of the memories let go

Long after the stones have crumbled
When no longer the names you see
Perhaps then you will have stumbled
over an uncovered bone of me

So enjoiy the flowers of life
before the winter's chill sets in
Just savor the scent  of  life
Before it comes crashing down in an end

I had just came
out of an AA meeting.
I looked to the
west, and spied a
mother cat with
a litter of kittens.
Little ***** of fluff,
running and jumping in
the tall grass,
unaware of the
danger that lurked.
A large black and white
Tomcat eased his way
up on one of
the kittens.
The tiny one arched its
back and hissed,
trying to be brave.

Male cats **** the
kittens so that
the female will go into
heat sooner,
and then he can
mate again.
He's a born killer,
living to ****.

As I walked towards him,
I thought to
myself, why can't cats
be like penguins?
The father helps raise the
little ones, and they
mate for life.
Why can't nature
have morals?
He was nose to nose
with the baby, when I said,
"Go on, get out of here."
He walked slowly, and then
turned and tried to come
back toward the kitten.
I put my hand on
his side and pushed him.
I stomped my feet and he
sulked away for
the time being.
He'll be back.

It ****** me off
and made me sad.
I thought of Caligula and
Roman empires,
and felines of all breeds.
The *** drive,
human and animal,
has its brutal side.

The broken soul is rough around the edges
The broken mind is chained to the past
But, a broken heart is the worst
It avoids the future out of fear

But, how can one truly be happy
Without taking a risk
Or leaping without a safety net
Then, we have to be content with what we have

A broken heart, a broken soul, a broken mind makes a person bold enough
They at least tried