You don’t have to be
beautiful or clever,

after the wind drops,
don’t be too good,

or pretend to be cool,
detached like the rest,

just enjoy the sunshine,
with me, the uncut park,

watching afternoon shadows,
creep warmly over your toes,

love your languor, turn-over,
maybe trade some dreams,

or share those shadows,
that cling to us both, and -

just let the hard softness of
your body do what it wants,

let grasses grow under you,
even into your saddest parts,

don’t be anything but this:
just be kind, and languid, and -

let the sun turn you soft and lovely,
anytime you get the chance,

so when I think of you, i’ll find you
in that time of grass and shadows.


Guy Peppin

Walls cover the grass.
Break them down, slide them to the side.
Tornadoes ripping on the lawn. Gently brushing by, making the sprinklers go off. Breaking the windows… kissing the doors
Volcanoes on my breakfast table, breaking the morning fast with a splash of lava squirting out.
A disaster; burning the village, breaking the bed… Leaving wrinkled sheets after it leaves.
She’s unbalanced and in need of a protector. But the laws are unbreakable. Fire breathing and constantly erupting the volcano is nearing destruction.
Violently coming over and over…
Burning everything in it’s way clinching to the ground for salvation. Still in unrest she falls asleep trembling…

Angels ask why…

Why choose a perfect system?

Only to defile it with one imperfect being

They're like bolts of lighting passing me by.
- It can be so static with all these emotions at the same time.
-I have all the explanations... rational-lies.
-Radical is sometimes what's  on the inside.
-I know we're talking about lives, but if I was different it wouldn't make a difference to some of the brightest lights to illuminate mine.

No one knows the horrible thoughts within my head,
I grow tired of faking normal.
I look into the mirror and hate who is staring back.

The daymares are worse than the nightmares because they come without warning.
It is hard to fake normal when the daymares come and tears stream and the shaking begins.
I run for a place to close a door and lock it.
Lock out the world and grab my hair and pull and pull so hard that I try to pull the scenes out of my head.

I see them over and over every day. I hear the sounds. I lose my breath when the triggers come.
I tell my doctor that I am tired of faking normal.
I ask for medicine that will make me feel numb.

He asks me, "When was the last time you were happy?"
I pause, I think. I don't  remember.
My family doesn't understand so I have to fake normal.
I tell him I don't know how much longer I can hold on. Do something.
He says. I want you to seek counseling.
NO. It doesn't work.
Please.
NO. Just give me something so I won't think anymore.

I know that this PTSD is winning. Faking normal is coming to an end.
My doctor looks at me for the first time with the saddest eyes and says, "I'm worried about you."
I think to myself, You should be.

With all the world waiting
We turned our eyes skyward.
Remember that day when we all looked through
Our electric windows on the universe,
Seeing old spheres from a new point of view?

Three times again, and again, and again,
Descending on dancing flames,
They scurried, slow-motion, through ancient dust
Who still now remembers their names?

They did the unthinkable, achieved the impossible,
Went where none had preceded, and more.
"**-hum! ...another launch, you say?
Is football on Channel Four?"

Mechanical colonists left behind
When we blasted back home in our ships
Drew life in their bellies from shattering atoms,
Energizing electronic chips.

They sensed the heat of ancient fires,
Moon-embers, banked deep inside.
They felt the star-bits streaming,
And the rumbling silent tide.

ALSEP voices, talking to Earth
In chattering bits and bytes
Sent their colonial treasures back
Through the lunar days and nights.

They measured the limb-shocked solar winds,
Changing the charges in sputtered lands,
And vibrating signals crossed the void,
Twitching inked fingers on metal hands.

The footprints and tire-tracks, unchanging, remain.
Like paths to the future, they glisten.
Solipsistic sentinals converse with themselves,
But there's nobody left who can listen.

we have this way of walking away
so carefully mapped out
for when things start to be real
like a dream, you were to me
in the haze of late night sunshine
and bottles on the ground
who were we in those days
did you know I loved you?
did you give yourself to me?
I fought and fought against
the currents in your head
glimpsing so briefly
that tender soul you guard so well
and then we leave,
with all the walls on the ground
give them the winter
to rebuild our guards.
walk those old streets in hopes of finding you
but I feel I’m never exactly what you wanted
just a naive young girl
carefree and wild.
& it’s such a serious life you live
full of martyrdom and resentment,
but I do love you nonetheless,
in all your faults, I would always come back
I would always come home
to be wrapped up in your arms,
is a relief I have never known
anywhere else.

If you read my poetry my love
For they are conquering bereavement
To bring you back, my words are arranging a court of river
To sail you on the court my pens are breaking down and turning into a boat….
For you my love, I have learned dangers have no shadow
If a tragedy closes a door, it also opens a new door
For a memory is lost by another memory
Though you will live in my poetry century after century……

It pulls me. It tugs at the crinkled corners of my mind until I am stretched so thin that my elastic muscles are about to whip back. I am pushed to the precipice of breaking point, looking down upon the drop dipping so deep that I can't bear to imagine what the floor looks like. It tugs at the crinkled corners of my mind. The Mariana Trench squeezes water columns through my veins and the pressure stiffens my limp limbs so that I lie in rigor mortis across an ocean of silk carpet. My chambered nautili organs withdraw within the equiangular spirals of their shells. It tugs at the crinkled corners of my mind. I am stretched and I bend my stiffened limbs until they creak at the joints. Synovial fluid weeps through my tearing skin to fall between yearning fingers. Cartilage grinds to a halt. It tugs at the crinkled corners of my mind. There is no energy for resistance and my muscle filaments cling in a final embrace. Rigor mortis. The precipice is now a mirage and my camel eyes wander on regardless. It tugs at the crinkled corners of my mind. I am stretched and the momentum knocks me forwards. I am falling and I am drowned before I reach the sea floor.
It pulls me.

What is a name?
A label that defines a person
Describes them flawlessly
Yet it also confines them
Puts them in a box
Live up to your name

A name serves an important purpose
To call you
To haunt you
Because names stick forever
Like glue

They follow you like a dog
You own the name?
Or does the name own you
Don't let a word define you
Drag you down with it