It is funny; Funny how one day you can see the universe reflected in your own eyes And blue-rich galaxies bursting from the hidden darknesses And the gone-places of your mind. Your pen is as ceaseless on your paper as your feet are on your bedroom floor.
Other days are like tepid water, or half-sour milk That is undecided on the matter of its own freshness. Those dark, gone-places of your mind are not even dimly lit. And yet you wish for that eye-universe, And those blue-rich galaxies, And for your pen to skate across the page As if possessed by the likes of Ginsberg or Kerouac.
So you wander down to the quiet places; To the caged city forests where the trees cohabitate with basketball hoops, And the birds sing their squeezed-in yellow melodies. To the crumbling, sandy banks, Where on a good day you can find a smashed white seashell Or a pocket watch, rusty and decayed with time And confident in its fragility.
But all you do is stare at the sky. No miraculous inspiration comes to you; No stardusted metaphysics, No juice-rich red and purple existentialism. No darling lovers dripping with candy-yellow sweetness As the birds sing like Blake or Wordsworth.
So You return to the loud and cluttered places; To your places, To your off-white apartments where the water runs cold And the refrigerator stinks worse than hell. To your concrete-welded rivers, Where the only birds are grey pigeons, And the most beautiful thing you will find Is a ***** green bottle Or a razor blade With more memories than you.
And you will try tomorrow. Maybe the ticking of your generic clock Or the casual griminess of your old green bathtub Will be enough. But for now, you will sit, And you will consider constellations And contemplate the reason why your lover's eyes Remind you of the Milky Way. For now, the eye-universe is still, and the blue-rich galaxies Are deep in sleep, Just like you wish you were.
For this is a tepid water day, a half-sour milk day. And that is not a bad thing, in the end.
written on a sunny afternoon in march on a day where i thought i couldn't write for ****.