582

Inconceivably solemn!
Things go gay
Pierce—by the very Press
Of Imagery—

Their far Parades—order on the eye
With a mute Pomp—
A pleading Pageantry—

Flags, are a brave sight—
But no true Eye
Ever went by One—
Steadily—

Music’s triumphant—
But the fine Ear
Winces with delight
Are Drums too near—

The passion of my heart.
Could wear the river rocks to dust.
Relentless like the tides of moons.

The passion of my heart.
Could travel any distance.
It knows no barrier like the fading Ozone.

The passion of my heart.
Could melt with invisible fire.
Like the polar ice caps.

The passion of my heart.
Could feed the hungry.
Full of Endless substance.

The passion of my heart.
Could be inconceivably large.
Rivaling the Sun and the stars.

Such greatness
With such grace
Bestowing
Worthiness on the Unworthy.

Gifting the
Ungifted.

Loving the
Unlovable.

Welcoming the
Unwelcome.

Turning the cheek
I have slapped too many times,
And responding
With a kiss.

I cry.
I wail for His forgiveness
And at the vision of myself
Strutting,
Cocky,
Totally inept
And inconceivably wrong.

And yet,
Grace.

Inconceivably generous. I am deliberate. ill-chosen, splintered, and imposed on. As a degenerate, I summon the Master's actions to justify my behavioral grit. My consciousness is as mixed as a Montrachet, yet my heart is as bold as a cheap Malbec.

What is so gently placed before you
Is a hideous manifestation of my world views. Skip the introductions-- pas de deux let's rendezvous into a drunken abyss of "I love you" and when I call to say something is missing-- it's been about 6 shots of regret and a couple of packs of loneliness.

I am like the tear in your sheets. I can make you feel warm until your body meets the open seam. Like that scarf you had around your neck that did not quite hide the marks that I left.

I am Inconceivably generous. I am deliberate. ill-chosen, splintered, and imposed on.

this is (not) a heartache poem
about
you or the way
your eyes stood glossy and
your mouth silent
in large crowds of people –
your
demeanour slowly playing
over me
time and time again,
even when i swore to myself that i would
shut you out
for good
but,
like your smile stuck in my brain,
it kept coming
back.

please understand that there is (no)
heartache here
because this is(n’t) a
poem
about how i spent my life in
paragraphs
filled with every beautiful,
treacherous
word i could think of
while you lived in
shallow, broken
sentences
or
how i could see you perfectly
through the flesh and bone and *******
that
nobody else knew about.

could you see
how much
i longed for you to
take me in the way i
was –
speak to me in the carefully rationed
words of your
stories –
anything that could’ve
brought me closer to you but instead,
only burned
inconceivably
in the wildfires of all you
cared about?

did i end up in those fires too?
were you so certain that i would just
forget
how you stopped sending me
the texts
that i waited
oh-so long for?

were you so certain that i
would have
let you slip away so easily
after the way you lead me to
believe
there was something
between us?

well, i did(n’t),
yet, just the thought of it
kills
me to remember how
you were the brightest star in my universe but
i
was just a mere speck of dust
in yours.

this will (not) be another poem
where
i dream about
watching every bone in
your body cave in
or
feeling your breath
against my ears
but (no),
trust me, there is (no) heartache
that i have
for you
or anything you ever did
in the last seven months we spent
together
that always left me dreaming
on a prayer -
but never listened to.

i know you didn’t want me.
i know you didn’t care.
i was just another one to you.

this is (not) a poem about
how i’m now
broken
because you left me
even though
you weren’t mine –

for where i am
now is(n’t)
heartache.

-something real. Something strong and sturdy, believable.  I want to write words that are heavy with lightness and dark with their brightness, to draw on a page a life so unbelievably real, so inconceivably mine
in creation

I want to write
-not just love. Not a ***** with a couple of drink-mangled bugs. I want to write about that feeling of blood churning and the warmth of emotion not physical feeling, to put into words the unwordable joy of being in the presence of
not just anyone

Anyone. Like the not-platonic-non-romantic affection that Rudy would not fail to hint at, that so-wanted kiss that Liesel gave, it wasn't so much the action as the meaning behind it. Like that itch on Death's ear when Liesel he came near, not to take her yet, but to steal her story, to live through it. To feel the words dance in his void, non-niceness, the infinite meanings and the power of phonic combinations.
They allow even Death to live.
I want to write like Zusak, like Rowling, like me.

I want to write
-the philosophies. The thoughts and wishes and wonders of a minority. I want to write about those opinions of those whose voices are too small and their souls beautifully lit up but unseen, their ideologies so unmistakably right but also naive and innocent, to stage their feelings from transition to transition
their words to the wise

I want to write
-characters so flawed. Each with an inner splendor most radiant, but with their fields of starless black and heads that wander from this to that. I want to write lives and people so different, with not-so-good lives and not-so-normal features. People who, though lacking thereof, cliche the right things and believe
in the wrong

The wrong. Their thoughts and meanings about life and beyond, undesirable and judged but that is the human mentality, such as Hazel Grace felt about her casualties and Alaska Young wondered about the labyrinth's unending game. So standard at first, but then Gandalf came and Bilbo learned the differences  between Hobbit and the untame. The reasons and purposes of life's grand living, through the eyes of those whose faces are shunned.
Hermione wasn't just a bibliosiac.
I want to write like Green, like Tolkien, like me.

Alas, the clock, a stained moon, it darkens, and the prejudice of people as well as the pride, unfortunately Austen couldn't lessen so much. Stereotypes triumphantly sit on the throne with their Mary-Sue maids catering from head to toe. I can't barge in, object to the crowning, because today I admit it: my writing is dying.

an ever-surmounting pile of guilt
stops me from sharing with you
all of the inconceivably dark things
that, to myself, i do.

the ever-raging seas of despair
that drown all glimpses of light
are growing inside of my mind
oh, how the skies were once so bright.

the darkness that lives inside of my mind
has slowly taken control
i am no longer able to feel light's warmth
nor, can i remember it at all.

i was once a young, joyous girl
until the devil stole away her last breath
and since that day
all i can think about is joining her in death.

All the elements that we arrange
in the Periodic Table, the very first
bacteria and also we humans
are creators of the universe

In time and space we transform
the energy and co-write
the imperishable facts
on the edges of black holes

That information already existed
as Creator
giving it space and time
with a big bang

It's inconceivably
and inseparably both
energy and information
are aspects of each other

My mind doesn't get that
Even if in deep meditation
my consciousness unites
with all that exists, I am ignorant

All I'm trying to say is this,
Life is so beautifully simple that it's complicated.
Life is so inconceivably limitless that we feel trapped.
Life is so impossibly important that we feel insignificant.
Life is so unbelievably unlikely that we feel deserving.
Life is so stable we feel insane.
Life is so intricately balanced that we feel chaotic.
All I'm trying to say is this,
Life is what you make it.

The dirt yawned
And swallowed the weather
While we sat patiently
Waiting for dawn.
The clouds were a landslide
That dragged us both down
Like synthetic feathers
In a hurricane.
We did not find OZ,
There was no other dimension,
Just cold, abusive soil,
And four billion years
Of built up tension
That unleashed upon us
A prehistoric frustration
With the lack of chaos,
And the predetermination
That replaced it.
We clutched at roots,
And ripped off our fingernails
Scratching at sandstone,
We lost our skin,
And inhaled the souls
Of a trillion decomposed
organisms.
Our bodies split
Like light through
A million prisms,
But our spirits
Kept up their plummets.
Into a chasm we fell,
Like grains of sand into
An expanding universe,
So inconceivably small,
So irreversibly without control,
So peacefully.
Our energies squirmed
In imperfect circles
Around each other
As the fall
Turned stationary
By perspective.
Other pairs joined us,
Attracted to our spin,
Until we formed
A new world,
To god's chagrin.

we have a peace plant in our living room
when it's thirsty it's leaves drag on our dust
filled floors and it's blooms look like the
eyelids of the old ******* that walks
around on grant street when she's looking
for change to buy her next forty- brown,
bruised, and sagging, as if they've seen
enough to last them a lifetime

i oblige the ***** often, giving her
quarters and whatever else i can find
in my backpack, i oblige the plant too,
giving it water and opening the blinds,
but neither seem to be reaching a better
quality of life, despite my best efforts

i find myself in inconceivably unforgiving
situations often, because of my best
efforts, and i'm beginning to wonder
when i lost sight of what it means
to really, truly, wholeheartedly give

There's always been something
so Hollywood about her--
and I don't mean
21st Century *******.

I'm talkin'
Judy Garland,
you're the bee's knees
type of Hollywood.

Now, listen'--
this girl--
I'm talkin'
Bombshell-Cutie
(she'll blow your
******'socks off).

I'm talkin'
Cinematic Beauty Queen;
skin freckled with film grain
the same way the night sky
is freckled with constellation,
mouth parted like velvet curtains,
only to reveal the sweetest prose.

She is Mystique-Fatale,
blazon in colour
among dull, sepia tones--
an Oz among all
the dreary Kansases.

She is allure and poeticism,
hair curled grand,
dressed to the nines
in lace and satin
(they wonder
what lies beyond the
half moons of her *******
and the slit in her gown,
if the butterflies
run rampant
between her knees
like everyone says).

Do not underestimate her--
she is both
Shirley-Temple-Sweetheart
(her kindness
does not falter)
and Pinup-Girl-Honey
(one would not think
to challenge--
to break--
a woman
so prolifically brazen,
but they try anyway).

In a world filled
with actresses--
please, darlings,
save the acting for
the stage,
******* it--
she is so ineffably herself.

She does not reserve
her emotion for
the theatre alone;
she is not afraid
to cry, and--
Jesus--
when she cries
the earth shakes
with the very profusions
of an opera singer's vibrato.

And, God,
you should hear
her poetry,
brimmed with images
picturesque and tragic,
straight outta the movies
it would seem.
Yet, her words
ring with something
so inconceivably real.

And that's what
you've always loved
best about her--
she is the truest person
you've ever met.

It's a shame, then,
that you wouldn't stay
for the grand finale.

But,
with or without you,
this show must go on.

(and it has).

We are waves of people
We don't accept defeat
Carrying generations of their blood
Etched on the palms of our hands and the soles of our feet
We defy the laws of gravity, our cosmic bodies in orbit always revolving
We possess a transformative skin
Continuously moving, constantly evolving

Current crashing, ripping through the earth
Roaring tides behind us, our vicious flood fights
The foundation of millennial’s - conscious, violently beautiful beings
Our loud waters, impossible to ignore, amorously painting our rights

The right, the will, the intense appetite
Flavored by salty words with a sweet impulse for action
Drowning all numbness, consuming the calm which once was
Thinking like philosophers, walking like warriors, as they record our reaction

Thin, musty white air trying to cover the shifting blue hues
The water never stops moving
the ripples inconceivably vast,
Our wave leaves masterpieces of celestial proportions
Our space is here now,
our tomorrow will not echo the past

Ours roots are planted and grown in our cities
Perfectly immortalized in a valiant state of existence
We are waves of people, waves of voices
A digital age of collective resistance

- p.m

I am forever.

I embody perfection.

I have been light.

I have come from shining stars.

I am inconceivably large.

All is one.



That which is above

Shall reflect

That which is below



One is all.

We are imperceptibly small.

We will return to black holes.

We will be dark.

We are the Ouroboros.

We are eternal.



The sky is electric blue
And though it's getting lighter,
It feels like it's getting dimmer.

I can't remember what I said to you the last time we spoke,
But I remember the way your sky blue eyes contrasted my own
which were stained red with rage.
I had never seen you angry and I think that's why I hated you.
Because you were everything I wanted to be but couldn't.
I wanted you to despise me,
Because you were perfect and I was inconceivably flawed,
And the thought of something so pure admiring my tainted soul tasted like shards.
I wanted to crack your glass eyes,
Slit my wrists with the remnants,
Make you understand what happens when you give your heart to someone who doesn't want it.
and though I didn't want you I needed you.
And I know that's a cliche,
But that writer you made me love embraced his so why shouldn't I embrace
Ours?

The trees are black against the now pale sky,
Their silhouettes look the way the tiger stripes of your irises did,
The way your faded scars did against your olive branch skin .
And goddamit why did you have to ruin the sky too?
I'm sick of everything becoming yours
You told me to stop giving myself away to everyone but you just keep taking
Take.
Take it all. 
I don't want it without you.
The electrons in the clouds are sleeping again
They're too tired to keep shocking me with images of your now permanently closed eyes .
And I can't help but wonder if when they sealed your eyes shut
If you were relieved because you had grown tired of trying to light up my permanently dark sky.

Your eyes
Two emeralds set in gold
With an ethereal allure
Two glowing gems
In a sea of perfection
Inconceivably pretty
Even by the highest of standards
None could ever fathom
The beauty held within

There is rain
and it is Saturday.
But that's no excuse for shame.
Nor is it more of an excuse
to watch self-inflicted wound
run loose.

I think of the sweet
crackling of
a summer treat-
branches burning,
newspaper receding.
THC,
butane
and stems of
a neglected yesterday
meeting.

But today is what's to be missed.
There are floods-
even on the weekends.

I am a floating hoax;

I will always be
a box of half-peeled jokes.

To flourish within this exposed state
is to self-paralyze and re-create.

But the nerves just don't want to listen-
that's the biggest part of the condition.

This explains rain on Saturdays,
absence within summer's crackling,
and hollow bones
floating like stones.

With luck
my torn skin will reach the ocean floor.

The echo of such a collision
will resemble my
inconceivably
indifferent
indecision.

I can feel it coming back
The hollow cavity, once again
Has claimed residence in my chest
I can feel it suppressing each breath
It weighs me down, I am carrying lead
It poisons my blood stream
I try to scream
Nothing escapes because my lungs are filling
I can’t breathe
The viscous liquid is killing
The world has drowned
Or possibly
It was me

Like quicksand, the more I struggle
The more the sand buries me
Inch by inch
Gasping for breath the small sediments
sting my throat
there’s no way out
only down
only the ground
that fills my lungs
I can’t breathe
No more sound
The world has drowned
Or maybe
It was me

The grains of sand fly through the sky
The wind picks up
More and more sand flies
It whips my hair, it stings my eyes
The wind gains strength
Calamitous glory
The grains meld together
They move together
They pulsate and writhe
Seemingly devoid of time
They fall and rise
A sea of sand dunes takes the skies
I can’t breathe
There is no more air
The world has drowned
Or conceivably
It was me

It sounds different from the ocean
I can hear the movements of each grain
I can hear their commotion
The tide pulls my legs
The wind rips my hair
The waves crash down on my body
Thousands of tiny scratches cover me
Head to toe
My skin is sanded thin as paper
The current is swirling
The sound of sand rushes
Like the indistinct murmur of hushes
The wave rises
The wave rises
If a wave rises it must fall
The wave falls
I cant breathe
I am crumpled, a paper ball
The world has drowned
Or likely
It was me


The thinnest parts of me rip
I spill out into the sea of grains
Undefinable, my pain
Indescribable
I can no longer tell where I begin
And where the ocean ends
I can now see the way the sky bends
The water becomes salty from my tears
Or maybe the salty water is my tears
My fading gaze flickers to the horizon
It is just a straight line
The world has drowned
And certainly
It was me
but inconceivably
Its all just a straight line

Inconceivably impossible
But yet here it is.
Here I am.
An anomaly trying
To mainstream
It's way through life
While some sense in me
Finds no such sense in you
Sometimes I am that tadpole
Weaving it's way
through the current
Sometimes that kingfisher
In amongst termites
Did you know that
Theres a warrent out
For your arrest
They say that you're
The very best
At what you do
And yeh you do be good
At getting me to love you
**** you I do.
I do love you.

My acid brain drizzles
And sizzles with riddles
Of trickle down sickles
That tickle my fancy
To take it all
Make it my own
'Till I fall
But exuberant peace-keeping
Missions are all
I desire
My fuel to the fire
Is never tell me
Not to gods to aspire
To be, more than anything
I ever dreamed
Ever schemed
Could be possible, plausible
Fathomably
Comprehensible
Nah! Inconceivably so,
Inexplicable is
Where I let my mind go