Retrograde beauty
Sparkling, smiling down at Earth
As dusk falls and fireflies illuminate our own planet
She shines even more brightly
Despite the pressure
And despite the sulfur
Her terrestrial surface gleams
Having no moons
She's a solo entity
But our sister
She circles the same violent ball of heat
As heliocentric
As we

Have you ever left?
Streets decaying, bereft of wonder
General store hours
Posted
Trees, posted
Homes, posted
This town is a ghost town
Like Centralia, Chernobyl, Hashima Island
Complacent in its solitude
While wind rustles the dead trees' souls
And dust collects in endless potholes
One street light flickers to guide the silence
Main Street relentlessly harbors memories
Of feet crossing and ***** tossing
A newspaper stand
A truck for the postman
This town is a ghost town

On the desk, there lies a fountain pen
It doesn't take cartridges
Rather, you dip it in ink and press it to paper
It makes a sound, not unlike fingernails on a chalkboard
But not like it either - it's satisfying instead of goosebump-inducing
Slowly scratching the page until it's gone
The ink has bled onto page 3
I've pressed too hard
But this paper is thick
Previous poets pondered profusely
Pretending this pen was a pipe
Holding it between their teeth until an idea came ripe
This pen holds a history of poetry
Of spilling thoughts that otherwise stayed internalized
And of sometimes spilling ink
It gets everywhere
I love it

Felled trees and failed deities
In books on shelves of libraries
Hundreds of them - thousands!
This sure is a sight to behold

Information, new and old
A rustic smell
Book mold?
Regardless, this is exhilarating

The past, too often, intervenes
With thoughts of forward productivity
The solution is not to push it behind you
But to use it to be even better
And to learn - to be thrilled to be here
And have great joy in the fact
That sometime in the future
You will experience such happiness, and such jubilance
A small moment, or a wonderful day


It really will be okay

Leatherbound
Tannins have branded
My fingertips
But the steel still feels and heals
right
I'm at home with this
This wooden body
And slender neck of burnt mahogany
Each string a page in the next great novel
It just hasn't been written yet

The clouds are wonderfully white
The Sun is peeking behind turbulent grey
Blue lakes and ponds are ephemeral in a way
Skygazing
You realize it's you
The clouds, the water vapor, the elements - you're oxygen and hydrogen and nitrogen and carbon and so much more
You are a product of all that is, and we are all together like this
The wonder comes in waves
How are you so blue?