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Nov 2023 · 310
The Flying Bed
topacio Nov 2023
Your child floats
above you like a kite,
umbilical cord string chaos
like the wing that you are.

I want to reel them in for you,
to fight the wind
and collapse them in
like stacked dominos,
perfect circles
that never topple over.

Your innards are desperate
for your attention,
they say as they dangle
above you like
a fickle skyscraper.

and you find a way to
skydive off of them
into yourself,
your parachute
falling short each time
to start the process
all over again.
Nov 2023 · 939
topacio Nov 2023
So often you vanish in the dark,
          my fair weathered friend.

Although it is there where I require you the most,
          my reminder of a silhouette existence.

I will become my own shadow,
          no difference between me and lightlessness.

I expand like a riddle in your thoughtless mind.
Sep 2023 · 66
A Day To Remember
topacio Sep 2023
It is the army of children
who wake me from sleep,
as they march towards
the neighborhood park,
with their declarations
of freedom.

I thought I was them
as I awoke from my rest,
but my pasture of purpose
has changed from
slide to desk.

I thought I was them
as I longed for green,
I thought I was them
and I walked towards the scene.

And I was quick to remember
nature said it best,
          how easy she gathers
          when we realize we are her guest.
Aug 2023 · 418
Deep Stone
topacio Aug 2023
There are lots of ways to
watch the babbling brook,

eyes closed fishing for
memories in a nook.

There are lots of ways to
walk along park trees,

a deep awareness of green
and the sound of autumn's breeze.

There are lots of ways to
name the sturdy rose,

white petal pearls  
and her iceberg clothes.

But today is for nature
and her in-between silence,

like a grey stone
tucked between dirt
we look to for guidance.
Feb 2023 · 117
topacio Feb 2023
Lets you and I
speak in languages
of ultimatums
and dare to
never discover
what the blind
would want to know.
topacio Feb 2023
I imagine your foot
hovering over
the pedal.

Your toes
in their shoes,
ready for you
to just step
on it already.

And the green
light of our moment
sending you into
a forward frenzy.

You wink at me,
the apparent slowpoke
in our scenario,
as if you're winning
some imaginary race,

that only sends you
flying into the arms
of another red light,
and another one after that,
and a stop sign there,
sandwiched between
a cross guard and
a rolling ball that
sends you to a
rolling stop.

And as I catch
up to you,
as I always do,
I wonder if
that's how you
approach the
everyday lanes
of your life,
racings towards
never stopping  
to smell the sweet
      surprise of your
slow surroundings.
Feb 2023 · 85
Just A Strawberry
topacio Feb 2023
Why does the cabbage
provoke such hatred,
unlike the sugar cookies
in their red lace box?

Why does the lover know
the way of the garden so well,
yet stampede off the path
and into the daisies?

It's the same as why
you must contend with the
aftermath of your family,
and become the spy
amongst the shrubs.

It's the same as why
we must speak to our
uncles like cherub angels
who know nothing of
their places in the cosmos,

and bite into our
strawberries to
find nature's
emerald right
there in front
of everyone
to witness,
glowing with
answer and resolve.

It will always
be just a strawberry
      to them.
Feb 2023 · 105
topacio Feb 2023
I lifted up the sky to
find a thermostat,
a small child fiddling
with all the dials.
And the clouds,
they were just the
soft heels of giants,
delicately managing
our inevitable collapse,
weaving the perfect story
to let us down gently.

Turns out we are just
a bunch of marbles
on the shelves of
champions who
simply enjoy our
sunset colors.
Dec 2022 · 85
The Bee's Sting
topacio Dec 2022
How bold to live your life
fixating on flowers just because,
to turn over petals and
find fully loaded barrels.

To travel slowly
on zephyr winds,
without a single idea
as to where you're going.

To see the forest for the trees,
and pick apart every detail
as to stitch them together into
a warm quilt of knowing.

How shall we break our bread?
In the company of our neighbors
and foes who we know are
nary good for our grow?

Shall we walk backward into the sunset  
as to warm up our backs for
what our enemies shall see
as we turn the other way?

Signaling to our bodies how
we are free to be unarmored
and bare amongst our families
without the expected sting,

and that we are free to fly
towards that delicate red,
buzzing for the nectar
of thought that every
flower possesses.

and realize that
we are the same
we are the same
we are the same.

our wings in their trance
humming with what makes
everything and nothing special.
Dec 2022 · 99
For the Hermit Crab
topacio Dec 2022
Do you hear that in the distance?
It is your silence asking you
to throw her to the tides,
she sees you are overdue
for a lesson in sound,
she sees the people who
putter about yearning for
that unsung chorus tune.

Leave her with her compatriots,
doubt and worry, just for a moment,  
you can return to their measures of
circular comforts tomorrow.

Leave her with the ash from last nights smoke,
you built in your minds midnight eye,
the fraught furnace of your future fantasy.

Your silence will arise again,
as she does with every passing moon,
she is tied to you like an anchor to a ship,
or maybe she is your ball and chain,
one cannot presume a relation
that shifts in tune with the northern wind.

She will always be greater than you, accept it.
And she wants nothing more than
to survive in this loud world,
she claws towards it from her thirsty well
where the people drink from her,
where they drink her up and
never retain her hydration,
she's learned to put holes in
her infrastructure to
vacate the premise,
her well dripping dry
of all her subtle wisdoms,
so that when you hoist your
bucket down and pull it
back up, you hear nothing
but the echo of air and dryness,
for there is nothing
like sound that
fine tunes and
greases up her
topacio Dec 2022
You search and search and
look for some shining sun,

as you are rock in your boat
drenched from the rains,

your paddles ready to depart
into the tides that want to

claim you as their own,
for your current is strong,

and you realize as you look down at your feet
you are made of stone, rock, gravel and cement

you are the glue, you are the lighthouse
the circulating beacon to guide

those who are lost, to those who have
tried to burn you down to watch

the bonfire of your sturdy wood
for their evening supper warmth,

and so you carry yourself from
out the storm and into your keep,

remembering remembering you
are there and always will be.
Dec 2022 · 183
Van Gogh
topacio Dec 2022
Why does one have to be
dead to be considered?  

Fine! I am dead. Consider this.  

Consider the living and the
tolerated death between breaths,

Consider the repeated
stabs of recycled days,

the preparation we gather as
decaying boquets for a final blow,

See how death roams the streets,  
and in the gargling of human feet,

See how we shutter in unison when
she peeks her head into our mirrors,

gazing back at us as wrinkles and error,
how she makes us halt our breathe

although our hearts tells us
its not over yet, it is not over yet.

so let it be known,
clear as day,

that I shall always stop
for the painters paints,
            still wet

I shall always stop
for the writers words,
           still fresh,

for if death shall stop for me
than I shall stop for heartbeat.
Dec 2022 · 249
topacio Dec 2022
She was a person with a lot of punctuation,
wherever she went punctuation followed!

Periods never lasted long
since they carried resolution,

and she was a woman always
embarking on what was next,

to uncover what was beyond
the point of no return --

the flat earth made round,
as to run in perpetual loop,

commas and exclamations
were common guests

and stayed long after supper,
well into dessert and into
         run on mornings,

they commonly crashed on her couch
until they got soaked into her furniture,

and now whenever she tries to rest
her head in the ending of her day,

she is poked with the scythe of her commas,
reminding her there is still work to be done,

her YALP! summoning her exclamations
from under her favorite pillow --

falling baseball bats barreling out,
their effervescent presence bubbling

to the surface where they burst and
reveal how itchy they make her feel.
topacio Nov 2022
Maybe the real work of our
lives start on a nothing Tuesday,

when you get stuck between
a question and its answer

resting on the tip of your tongue.
For that is where they really live —
all your answers.

They are never fully capable
of flying from out of your mouth,

they are words without wings and they
enjoy sitting atop their enamel throne,

so you spend the rest of your life
searching and grasping for them

in movie theatres, lit-up streets,
cold museums, lovers and silence,

to try and fully taste what it would
be like to live with their existence.
Nov 2022 · 61
topacio Nov 2022
How shall I understand the nature of small?
crumble my body, folding my flesh in on
itself until I am round like
the rolling armadillo?

Praise the grains of sand that
make up our coast while
ignoring the sea?

Maybe I will just
write a haiku instead and
turn into a word.
Nov 2022 · 61
The Busker
topacio Nov 2022
And for her next act she
decided to become a pencil,
but only to use for the eraser,

her sharpened lead
made her look strong
and important,

and she enjoyed sitting
in her own pool
of possibility,

rather than contend with
the upkeep of her

so she never really wrote anything,
she just paraded around town
as a pointed pencil and overused eraser

pantomiming her emotions,
hoping for someone to
drop a few quarters
into her ***** sidewalk hat.
Oct 2022 · 92
topacio Oct 2022
Sometimes poems are so full of themselves,
loaded up on words and story,

with their "likes" and their "as"
to connect the most dissimilar things
     to denote clever

with their superior pinkys
erecting into the air

before prose ever made its
way into the catalogs of dialogue,

their indistinguishable punctuation
and schizophrenic indentation,

and the greatest of them all
never knowing when to stop,

sometimes deciding to merge into
the next book as you decide to
put them down.
Oct 2022 · 69
topacio Oct 2022
"I sometimes fear the younger generation will be deprived of the pleasure of hoeing."
-John Updike

I sometimes fear the younger generation will be consumed
by the pleasure of scrolling,
there is no knowing,
how many souls have been split by this simple exercise.

The dry thumb like a weakened scab,
in perpetual rowing,
revealing the traveler's roam,
without ever leaving home.

How neatly they pile on the streets,
eyes due south into screens.
Wise is the ignorant boy who
has never performed this simple, stupid and useless wonder.
Oct 2022 · 70
topacio Oct 2022
My skin felt invasive as
it was covering my soul,

I was shining so bright that day
as the rain kissed the ground,

and you felt like the clouds stampeding
over my sky, all billowy and inflamed

weighing me down and stuffing me in,
and yet at the same time a necessity.

I knew I couldn't survive the elements
without you, but oh how I wanted to.
Oct 2022 · 74
In My Dream
topacio Oct 2022
You are there
and I am there,
or maybe I am there
and you are here,
or you are there
and I am here.
We are just toggling
back and forth
through the lanes
of time and space,
missing each other
always by just a
few seconds.
Oct 2022 · 64
A Happy Marriage
topacio Oct 2022
The great thing about being married
to my alone is how she is everywhere,

she is in the bathroom stall and
the never dialed midnight calls,

she sits under layers of conversation
when relation has left the dialogue,

nestled in my car rides where I
can truly soak into her aroma,

and sing her songs that sound
better only when she's around.

She's the same as she ever was,
and she hasn't aged a day,

open and expansive,
molecular and cool.

She knows herself so well,
and takes up space as if

she created it herself.
I envy her sometimes

when I am all places at once and
empty vessels are nowhere to be found.

But she finds herself back to me
so often I believe she never really left.

I dare to say we might be soulmates,
is what hits me as I take my walk to the kitchen

and leave you comfortable in my bed,
in your unhappy marriage to your alone.
Oct 2022 · 53
The Next Dance
topacio Oct 2022
As quiet as the dancer lost in her own grace,
I was being replaced that afternoon.
I could feel it coming on like some seasonal flu,
or attack of the locusts

A new mindset or way of relation was
swarming around me and ready to land
into the day's equation.
I was being replaced

by another step in the ladder,
another shed of what didn't matter,
in favor of bigger fish to fry.
I was being replaced

by the thought of my 80-year-old self,
crinkled and ragged under the canopy of my past
wishing I had better surfed the terrain of emotion,
like the ballerina who can pirouette in silence,

making grand movements without a single ripple,
daring to be small within the large halls of my own world  
was something I was inching toward as I
looked at myself swarming into myself,

and crossing the rubicon of what I was yet to become.
It looked small where I was meant to go
and I was okay with that since these halls were
becoming too large for my next dance anyways.
Oct 2022 · 69
Clean Up
topacio Oct 2022
I tried to imagine a city
without a cause.
Was it just the country?
Was it just James Dean
stuck in Indiana,
slinging shots of
espresso along
the main strip?

Imagining this city
without her cause,
felt like taking the
song away from the
opera singer,
or making butter
without the churn.

The city always needed
friction to run properly,
a soundtrack of gossip and
tire screeches making
their way to the surface,
an invitation for
us to step into
the womb of its
mortal coil.

We climb in,
with our desperation
and seek answers
to the meaning of
what is human,
adjusting smiles to
carry the weight
of what's expected of us.

While the birds remain
in their trees,
light as wind,
next to their babies
crying out,
look at the
mess you've made,
be still, already.
Oct 2022 · 162
topacio Oct 2022
I awoke this morning and
wondered if I was even sentient.
The curtains failed to close
over my lids once more,
forcing my mind's actors to
repeat their tired monologues.

They wax on about regrets,
and the lovers who failed
to pass the test of time,  
friends too for that matter,
recipes that will be born
in the upcoming week,
and the subtle noises
emanating from the
dark corners of my room.

Try as I might to pull
the rope of my velvet curtain,
there remains my lead actor
once more trying to
prove her point that
the road to success is
in the wee hours
of the morning,
right here and now.
The entrance on my desk,
where the muses like to offer
me cement for my tired bricks,

even though I have been
harping on about how they
have been doing their
timeless work of threading
inspiration into my flesh
in the afternoons as of late,  
amidst the heatwave when
the citizens of the world
recoil inside their homes
to escape the sweat and
throngs of people who
leave me weary during
the early hours of
the morning.
Oct 2022 · 51
topacio Oct 2022
I can't remember when
I started to see color,
maybe it was when
I chose you as
my lover.

Or when the delicate hum
of conspiracy wrapped its
violent claws around my waist,
and I learned how to speak her tune.

The grey landscape turned blue
when I chose to see my lens through you.
Sep 2022 · 73
The Mad Man's Flight
topacio Sep 2022
Your mouth is a piano,
and I want to play her
is what I thought when
the candlelight flickered
across your words.

I hadn't heard such a
symphony of statements
arrange themselves so
well since my first love
introduced me to

I know you were just
searching for ways
to not be a beginner,
stumbling left and right
into the cushioned walls
of your straightjacket mind.

Oh, don't tell me I have confused
a stone for a diamond once again,
for it is close that a mad genius
and clever man sit to each other.

And tonight I can't tell the difference,
or if I should merely jot down your song
like the birdwatcher to his bird
to recall it again at some later date,
or join you in your fanciful flight.
Sep 2022 · 73
Dawn's Chorus
topacio Sep 2022
It is striking to believe how
little applause the morning
bird gets after her daily song,
as she sits perched on
her branch marking
her territory like
the dog and
his lifted leg.

But then again,
I dont believe birds
undersand the
nature of applause,
inasmuch as the
worm wiggling
his way out
of the dirt or
the cat's eyes
darting into
their direction.

These are thoughts
that overtook my
mind as I wrestled
with my coffee to
turn the key to my
mind’s engine already,
feeling as if I was
once again but
a fingernail
inside my
Sep 2022 · 81
topacio Sep 2022
I've become very fond of my no's,
and the ways in which the
wind does not go.

Lend me your question
and I'll lend you my no,
after my season upon
season of insatiable yes.

I cozy up next to my no
like the cold to a stove,
we are a perfect match,
her and I and we dance
the tango at midnight.

My no is starting to have
a mind of her own,
enlarged ego and a
questionable claim
to a no man's throne,
her master plan
to repurpose my
night away from the
masses and throngs
who never seem to
know which way to go.

I "no" my way into secluded gardens,
water sheds and cemeteries,  
preferably alone, where my no's
like to stampede over the paths,
forging her own.

I've made friends with my "no's",
so much so I dont know
which way to go without her.
The road to yes is paved
with a thousand good no's
is what she subtly whipers to me
as I gaze over to you,
and your question starting to
drip into our current affair.

What better sound shall
pour from my lips than
the steady cadence of
my self-assured no?
Sep 2022 · 389
Happily Engaged
topacio Sep 2022
What good is a conclusion
without anyone there to hear it?
Is what I wondered when
I realized I did in fact
love the man who
asked me where
my smile was,
even though I
know I wasn't
supposed to.

I often ask myself
the same question,
strange man,
usually after I see
the sharp corners of
my mouth ache
for their lost soft.
and something foreign
has taken its place.
a slow settle
like the
thick fog
that sweeps
over orca waters,
usually right after
a month's long fight
with a pen or falling
too far from my
blanket of zen.

Maybe I'm not meant
to smile this year.
I am after all happily
engaged to my year of solemn,
another conclusion
I came to on my
road of conclusions.

And yet although
I have no one to
speak to on my
epiphonous road,
these conclusions
do exist and  
will persist,
despite what
the others
Sep 2022 · 62
topacio Sep 2022
I take off my enthusiasm nightly
like a cloak of bad behavior,
or a well-worn brassiere,
oh great sigh of relief.

I let my feelings melt onto the
***** floors where they feast
upon debris for their supper,
them wild things.

I let fall my voice and laughter too,
my propensity to smile thereafter,
dangle them on rusty hooks,
them ****** things.

Rid me of thee until the sun rises.
I enjoy my night straight up
without the decor of my day
holding me down like an
anchor to the parade.

The night always brought
with her a certain sensibility,
of ownership and reclaim.
I shall take back that
which the day has taken.
She fills in the cracks
the night has put upon me,
let me break in peace,
for that is all I wish to do.
Sep 2022 · 69
topacio Sep 2022
I smelled something
curious as I entered
my home today,
a musty yet
familiar fragrant
I hadn't whiffed
in years trailing
from my dining
room table.

There nestled between
the flowers and the mail  
thoughtfully brought in
was your love letter,
that reeked of the future.

This whole ******
house reeks of it now,
and I have to shoot these
clothes into the wash,
or set them ablaze.

You've spilled our past
into this cursed letter too,  
compliments stuffed
in the margins like
a Thanksgiving ham,
absolutes written in sand.

You've tried to hide
space with your ink,
your cover ups,
smoke and mirrors
are heavy here,
the same patterns,
bright as day,
expected as the
migrating duck,
I must navigate
out of.

It sings of how
time can strangle
your dreams,
and weigh on
your shoulders
with hybrid

And right there in
the middle of this,
stuck in the heavy
gossamer of your word,
is me.

My future shouldn't
reek of this flavor,
I prefer the stale
moment of my
presence to
engulf me,
and to sit in grey,
I enjoy my grey.

To be both
guest and host
in my world,  
and to continously
arrive back to myself.

I am the prodigal one,
always leaving
always returning,
back and forth
back and forth
i am the wave
and you are just
the traveler,
i am afraid.
Sep 2022 · 63
Give Me Failure
topacio Sep 2022
I dont want to
cradle your
head with a
soft pillow,
no more
than I want
to hear the
remind me
is here.

I don't
want you
to believe
that I am
good at
I do,
or have
a clue of
what it
is that I
do in
fact do.

I want to
nestle my
veins in that
there thorn
of your brain,
to pick
and pluck
to swim
in muck.

I want to run
blade first
into what
failure has
to offer,
a warm dinner
with fine dine silver.

I can make you
out with just
your cheek
and toe,  
there's a
silence in
your glow.

I never saw
the appeal
of applause,
or **** offs
a sycophant
and her
head full
of braids.

Two excitable lips
were never
better than
the funny
man's quips,
with their
flashy red,
and their
he said
she said,
I turn
my neck.

Shall I make
sense to you?
I am a train
without the
choo choo.
I am failure.
I am pause.
I won't do
what you
tell me to.
Sep 2022 · 61
The Knife
topacio Sep 2022
I used to enjoy
spooning dead
creatures up
from deep
bottomless pits
to give them life.

I liked to
their despair,
untangle their
hair and polish
the mirrors
I would
shove into
their faces,

telling them
to mimic my
words, bright
and round and
in harmony
with one another,

while i reserved
the jagged
and rusty
phrases for myself,
sharpening blindly
for the sake
of the sharpen,
for the sake
of tradition,
until I had
turned around
into my own
aghast to
witness the
knife I had
Sep 2022 · 57
topacio Sep 2022
You will never
know how I held
back sharp words
behind a caged mouth,
when you asked
me of my day.

I wanted to cut off
your golden hair
and wear it as
a mustache,
because you
forgot to take
out the **** trash.

I had my lighter
right around
my neck,
and knew
how to
spark it,

but knew
that one
of anger
our million
pieces of
shared joy.

And so I
and thought maybe
I had completed
an important
life lesson.

Maybe somehwere up
in the heavens
God and Jesus
were cajoling
over wine
of my decision,

The little cherub
angels were
sounding their
preparing for
my arrival
one day,

and sharpeining
their wings
to inevitably
carry me back
to my improved
return as
some great
figure or
rare bird,
to reward
my refrain,
to reward
my refrain.
Sep 2022 · 49
topacio Sep 2022
The high priestess sun
and the moon
on a throne
of space
were all
people could
write of
took over
the face.

Galileo liked to kiss
his telescope with an
eye full of curiosity
jotting down notes
of invention,
while Monet stared
so hard at flowers
he came back as
pollen riding a bee.

The wind whispered
a different tune
back then,
it had a voice
and plenty a
listening ears
to land on.

I heard the sea
also slept with sirens,
who slept with sailors,
that slipped into stories
we don't know to be
true or false.

I wonder what it was
like when two worlds
knew how to coexist,
when humans
lived with magic,
and without
the need to

But I believe
we have glued
our wings too
close to the sun,
we never got the
chance to fly.

I often see
our finish line
in the way
we treat
each other,
save for the
select souls
who can still
sing the
siren song,

who can sit
with silence
and heartbeat,
swim into deep
hours of nothing
and bring back
jotting it down
as verse or book.

Let us inch closer and closer
to this forgotten behavior, you and I.
topacio Aug 2022
I think of all the times I have wanted to use you,
but chose your stronger brothers:
damp, muggy, soggy, dank

Or heard you pass through the slips of human lips,
and shuddered at your mere presence.
Damnation was never your goal in life I am sure,
you had greater ambition, despite your condition.

You never deserved the dank basement
of vocabulary, or the back of the bus.

I hope that when the sun rises,
some lunatic with a pen takes you up from the ditches
and writes a soliloquy about his lover's moist lips,
how they so gently move within his grip.

I hope that when the travelers sludge through mud,
they hear moist moist moist echo from their shoes
and are reminded of your being
as you stay lingering in their traveling heads,

across the mountains of Timbuktu and into Machu Pichu,
most likely streaming on a thread atop a skyscraper
dangling in the wind for no one to see.
Aug 2022 · 65
topacio Aug 2022
"Out of the ash,
I rise with my red hair,
And I eat men like air."
-Sylvia Plath

My father's office
housed indentured
servants of paper stacks,
all crawling towards
the ceiling to escape,
mildew man in a
metal bin can.

Old German phrases
lingered in the air
escaping my grip,
all your ich bins
and ein kleines,
the Nachtmusik tune
and the cuckoo song,
turns of the *****,
in replace of an
I love you.

I dreamt you were insufficient
so it'd be easier to forget you,
my want is my want,
but you're always there,
with your Luftwaffe stare.

Where were you when
the night turned blue?
you do not do what
the other folks do,  
with your jagged soft
and history besmeared,
secrets spewed out
car windows you  
dont have words to.

You've swallowed
your children whole,
with your gobbledygoo
and witches brew,
as we crouch down
behind ancestors
begging for answers
they won't reveal.

Don't matter to me!
I can spell out
complex words
with vague candles,  
blow them out and
start all over again
and again, it's true,
join the rat race,
blending in well
like your split pea soup.

I can move myself to
sit in my presence after all,  
I can make myself known
when you enter the room,
holler over revved engines
and your quivering pens,
erratic hair and swivel chairs.

Daddy oh daddy oh,
you didn't raise no fool,
for me and her and
the ones yet to be her,
we are not through, daddy oh
After it all, she rose up with her red hair
and gulped you down like easy air.
Aug 2022 · 247
The Color Wheel
topacio Aug 2022
It's so easy to pick up a color
and dance her to bed,

he picked up blue but
prefered green instead,

he tossed her aside
and mixed her with red,

without a color wheel
he painted her dead,

I am wary of your hands
from now on she said,

I'll dance with the moon,
and then eat an egg.
Aug 2022 · 52
topacio Aug 2022
My Fathers Office
sat with with
indentured servants
of paper stacks, crawling
towards the ceiling,
mildew man
in a metal bin can

old German phrases
lingered in the air,  
and my shallow
net unable to catch
a meaning,

of your ich bins
and your ein kleines,
your Nachtmusik of
revved engines,
cigar suitcases and
old turn of the *****,
in replace of an
I love you.

Don't matter to me,
I can spell out any
words with candles afew,
blow them out too
and eat the cake soon.

Some of them
do not do, you do not
do not to,

Where were you
when the night
turned blue?

but of intentions

you carry secrets you
dont know the words to,

a revved engine, cigar
suitcase and boots
Aug 2022 · 69
Fine Wine
topacio Aug 2022
Sometimes you read a poem
and your glass becomes full,

more often you read a poem
and your glass stays the same,

Sometimes you read a poem
and see their glass is filled with wine,

and yours is filled halfway with 2% milk
or maybe it's an old milkshake,

which begins the endless journey
to fill your cup to the brim,

to become a caretaker of creation
an alchemist of thoughtful transition,

to turn your glass of cow mucus
into a glass of fine French wine.
Aug 2022 · 374
The Northern Lights
topacio Aug 2022
It is nightly,
I shift from person
to sleeping archaeologist,  
as I shut my eyes
and fall into you.

And it is nightly
I set out to
decode the great
of your sky,  
etched out by
or maybe the great
ancient spirits,
who try to
relay simple
answers to
heavy thoughts.

It is is evident to see,
after my nightly research,
that you are simply
the dancer's ribbon,  
and the beings
yet to be written,
the ghouls in the attic,
and the poet's poem,
the union of electricity
and circumstance
colliding to
put men in
their place.

And as I fall
deeper into
the excavation
of my slumber,
I hear your whispers
dancing through my sheets,
saying: yield to me
when we one day meet,
not like the lunatic soldier,
but like the silken lover
who is reliably there
upon your awake.
Jul 2022 · 210
Niagara Falls.
topacio Jul 2022
You are the whooshing woman
       spewing out idea after idea,
            in a boardroom meeting full of men,
              who pay big bucks for your easy genius.

Your constant shhhhh,
    remains the greatest reminder  
       to stand silent,
          it is the wind of your water,
            that carries fish to a new life
              or the waiting beak of a gull.

And as your water topples to the side,
     you become nature's velvet curtains
       forever drawn to hide secrets
         never meant for human consumption,
           it is there, where you declare victory
               over the paradox that is earth.

Has anyone ever told you  
    your movement is your stillness?
      Your calculated charm of "go"
         provides anchor to the
            nebulous change of man.  
Sometimes I can hear
      you in airplane cabins
              and in evening traffic,
                 when I am really trying hard
                     to return to nature.

But most of all I hear you in relation,
      between two hearts beating with purpose,
          within a rapturous conversation
              about human chemistry.

I'll admit, I have tried to carry you,
    but you are too slippery when wet,
       and you are always bursting with
         significant moisture.
Jul 2022 · 65
The Unphenomenal Woman
topacio Jul 2022
"Women have the extraordinary privilege  
of fighting for their rights together one day,
just to tear each other down the next day."

You have held your
signs up about my rights,
and then mocked me
in front of good
looking men,

Your fights are
laden with
convenience you
publicly display
in your calendars.

And so I ask:
Where did your
woman go?

Sometimes, I think
she is hiding
behind your
own protest signs,
your shouts I
thought were
for courts,
and reserved
for cause,
are perhaps
your yodeling
practice sessions,
without a
guided leash.

Your light is
so it seems,
for when the moths  
come flocking
to your glow,  
as easy bait,
and they often do,
you fancy
yourself the sun.

You use seesaws
as balancing beams,
rocking up and down
on your convictions
until your formed rocks
turn into mere pebbles,
turn into sand.

Sometimes you
like to ****** your
phenomenal onto me
and say "look look,"
as if you are
a mountain,
but you are
still a hill.

And just like
and with
the certainty
of rubber
still you rise,
But still,
like dust,
you fall
without the
security of knots,
still you rise
still you fall.

Because no one
can be two places
at once,
and so I sit here
as you
leave me
after every
womanly uproar,

Where did your
phenomenal woman go?
You can rise or
you can fall,
but you can't do both.
Jul 2022 · 92
Grand Canyon
topacio Jul 2022
I've never been to The Grand Canyon.

In fact, as far as canyons go,
I've only been to two or three.

And each time I slide into that mineral womb,
I am wrangled into a new identity.

I've become a waffling man
stumbling headfirst into his first love,

A child staring into the
smoky barrels of adulthood,

A castaway stranded at sea,
the center of a tornado,

A speck of dust on a speck of sand,
a decorative ring on a gentle hand,

And a dog lost in the woods
who has lost his urge to howl.

At this point, I have resigned
myself to fervently avoid you.

Seeing that smaller forms
can ****** me into a tailspin of identity,

I don't care to know what your grandness will reveal.
I think I might dare to give you my life,

before you decide to shoot me into the
dizzying preamble of my next form.

So for now, I'll make do with carrying your spirit,
as long as we are in agreement that you carry mine.
Jul 2022 · 693
topacio Jul 2022
Maybe the only
vocabulary we have
to describe death
is silence and a
bow of our head,
braiding our fingers
over our books after
each word has been read,
gazing ahead and
knowing that we
are just an alphabet
of letters never meant
to spell out any words.
Jul 2022 · 72
Re: Politicians
topacio Jul 2022
I saw the pen
eyeing the page,

the paints
eyeing the canvas,

and the piano
glancing towards space,

and I said to them all:
hold your fire, dear soldiers!
Why ascend into haphazard excellence,
when you are so brilliant
in your mediocrity?
Jul 2022 · 59
The Poet's Journey
topacio Jul 2022
I wonder when Ferlinghetti
spoke of ballerinas in Central Park,
how much coffee he chugged
before feeling the electric
buzz of descriptions
coarse through his pen.

I imagine Mary Oliver
sitting seaside in a cabin,
with shells lining her desk
and her chamomile tea
whispering soft haikus
for her to relay to the world.

Rilke traveling through
Swiss mountains on a train
with a leather briefcase
filled with handwritten letters
and wisdoms borrowed from
his heartbreaks.

Did they write with me in mind?
With other poets in tow?
Their great loves on their sleeves,
melting into their prose.
Who did you write your poems for?

Did they know that a young girl
in California would be sleeping
with their names on books at night,
in replace of a lover?

I bet Hemingway would've like that.
Jul 2022 · 58
They Say
topacio Jul 2022
Those who can't do, teach
and those who can't write novels,
write poetry.
Jul 2022 · 72
topacio Jul 2022
The world of poetry
never stood a chance
next to the world of music.

I'd take Miles Davis
burping into his trumpet
over Allen Ginsberg
singing his gay praises
into a microphone,
any day.

Or watch Elvis Presley
ricochet his pregnant
hips from east to west
and croak his
hand me down tunes,
over Shakespeare
In The Park
any day,

It's that ****** tune
that gets me every time,
that jolts me from my seat
like a reversed lightning bolt,
and into my red dress
and perpendicular thinking.

and then its poetry that
ushers me back down
the aisles towards
the exit sign after
the whole show is over,
and to the silent
dormitory of my brain,
left with my thoughts
and words to crochet together
when I am all too tired to
pluck the strings
of my dusty guitar.
Jul 2022 · 74
All Roads Lead To Roses
topacio Jul 2022
I wish flowers
would go extinct
if only for a day,
from both the earth
and my memory,
just so I can pluck these
thorny comparisons
from out my poems.

And while we're there,
sunrises can also take the boot
with their predictable
eastern risings and
western settings,
intrusive summer heat,
and their connection to
the feminine glow.

Why not try
rising in the north
and setting in the south,
dare to relate yourself
to the screech of a car?

Don't get me started
on the diverging
roads and your
forked choices
or a bustling stage
you call your

I want to lean
on over to Andromeda,
and see what kind of
terrain they have,  
weave my words
based on their cold suns,
that are actually called
moons or flubberdygoo,
that never set and
mimic the sounds
of migrating birds.

Or maybe peek
on over to Neptune
with her five rings and
get a better idea
of the color blue
and how wind can
actually feel like

Because my dear
however lovely
your lips truly are,
I can no longer go
forward relating them
to the red rose nor
compare our
premature parting
to the setting sun.
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