1
there is something mindlessly vicious about mornings alone.
the birds call for each other as the sun rises and it’s all very
lonely, isn’t it?
the pomegranate is beautiful but no less sour for it,
the clouds are a light orange.
it still stings.
you sleep in the bed next to me and i have loved nothing like i love you,
except maybe my cat, but that’s different
i think,
or maybe my dog, or our three rats-
is it possible to be in love with different things at once?
i’m still deciding- give me another 20 years to figure it out.
my mother always told me i had so much love 
bouncing around in my chest that it was hard to keep still,
everything was-slash-is so beautiful that i couldn’t sit in one place,
affection bursting out of me from the seams.
maybe that’s true, maybe that’s just ADHD,
but does it matter? i’m not sure
what does matter:
the way my cat slept with me last night,
curled up between my chest and the edge of the bed,
rumbling softly in the moonlight.
reminds me that she loves me with soft eyes 
and the press of her perfect forehead against my hand.
i scratch under her chin and she purrs.
i lie there,
aching,
and try to sleep.

2
i believe in a past life i was a hermit
living on a wild cliff above the sea.
i spoke to only the animals i cared for and
my own reflection.
this makes sense to me-
why else would i choke on words so easily?
why else would they stick to the roof of my mouth and 
refuse to come out?
instead i think the words i want to say and then keep them inside-
little secrets
only i am allowed to know.
have you thought of a dam yet?
is it overflowing? water
streaming down the sides? throwing itself over the 
edge? dashed on the rocks below?
yeah.
yeah i think that fits, too.
bottles shatter in my chest only to be contained 
by another, larger bottle,
so on and so forth,
until my chest is fit to explode.
i get a gift for a friend, and it doesn’t work.
this feels like a metaphor for something
but i don’t know what yet.
i’m still working on that part.

3
something that always bothered me was,
like,
who allowed this to happen?
was it my mother? meaning well but hurting me anyway?
was it my father? was it G*d?
i don’t think we’ll talk about either of them
(and yes, i understand that this is a cop out).
the pinecone brings life and oxygen
but it stabs my hand when i cradle it.
life always finds a way, yes,
but could it maybe hurt just a little less?

I sought visions;
I sought unific feelings;
I sought insights.
I got visions that churn imagination,
  history, and Gods.
I got unific feelings that made
  my whole body pulse together
  with the world and universe.
I got insights into origins, essentials,
  and outer limits.
All this through silence, and
  I ached.

Then I stared at the light,
  and remembered the darkness.
None of these seemed important
  any more.
The only thing that mattered
  was deed, good deeds.

Call it detachment from senses
  as the Buddha would say.
Call it an impulse to help others.

But all I can really say,
  is that I stared at the light,
  and it was so commonplace now,
  it was even as dust.
And all this inner travel
  and work meant nothing anymore.
How can I serve?

Is your bedroom ceiling,
As dark as mine?
Can you see in,
The night?

Is it pebbled,
Is it flat,
What do the,
Shadows look like?

Can you look up,
And see your dreams,
Or just see concrete,
And beams.

Stars,planets, space, infinite expanse.
Is it just old light?
Is it just ice, rocks and dust?
Is life all encompassing?
Is coalescence a must?
Writing a verse about the universe.
Is matter the chorus written within the song of infinity?
Does gravity flow and ebb like the tide?
Does time writhe and struggle like the dying beast?
Will the void consume as does a king at his feast?
What is it that planets discuss?
"What is really at your core?"
"Do you know your own state?"
"Be it solid, liquid, gas or plasma?"
"Perhaps do you contain condensate?"
Collapsing, contracting, imploding, eroding.
Was it all just a sneeze of creation by some omnipotent presence?
What does it all mean?
Where is the essence?

I overfilled my mug with coffee this morning
I saw it reach the top
Then continued to pour until it spilt on the table

I stopped at a green light today
I knew it was green
I wanted to hear the symphony behind me

Perhaps it was in December or January,
When a greying mob member tumbled down the stairs.
Perhaps, they said, it was because he was old and weary,
They told me “Do not speak”, for fear I would meddle in their affairs.

They told me “Do not look”,
For fear that I would empathise and find, what a cold dead body could yield.
To look into the grey glass eyes of a wife abusing crook,
For I would find the last embers of a carefree child in the fields.

I've been to several of these before,
The monotony of incense crackle and firecracker smoke.
They dance nonchalantly around in circles, performing their sacred rituals,
Throwing dirt with their mouths and hands upon the dead and living.

Will they weep at my funeral
Or will they snicker and say good riddance?
Random stranger reading my honey drenched eulogy,
Why so cynical?
Am I the only happy nihilist out there
Oh, will you cry happy tears at my funeral?

Raindrops
Dripping silently from the flaccid branches
With leaves like dying embers
And a solitary crow gazing at the sky

Winter heat
A thousand hues
Incandescent crimson tree fingers
Reaching out in the afternoon sun

White melting dunes
Sprinkled with acorns and dust
Out and up grow gothic evergreens
Into the blue serenity above

Through contemplation,
the mind leaps to its haven
above reason's gaol