My life is usually unraveling quietly inside various states of disarray

Its my own doing and I am a professional

I know I sound self absorbed and self afflicted

I hope I didn't steal your time

I am a lot of things

but I am not a thief

I suppose I could take comfort in some small consistencies streaming through our species

In comparison to the time we spend dodging trains

Or pursuing another 0rgasm with an animalistic momentum

This is light speed fleeting

Still

Only a small step away from creating black holes

Anyway...

I say obsessive compulsive disorder

the red tape says crazy

I say these 60 hours of consciousness are the product of a restless mind

the white suits say its surely a chemical inbalance

but upon what scale are they operating?

(eyebrows raised in disbelief)

THE SCALE OF SANITY OF COURSE

oh

The only thing that provokes a serious need for vacancy in my life

Is full pockets

That's not a half baked metaphor

nor is it an obscure display of nerves crumbling

...forever deconstructing inside a failed attempt at demonstrating the burdens of existence

I really cannot stand crowded pockets

My lifestyle does not accommodate such a condition

Tobacco boxes and plastic flames

Cheap contraptions for times subtraction

A wallet absent of evil

Still

Chalk full of all the proper identification for existing

and depending on the day

The necessary tools for twisting reality into compliance

A touch screen distraction full of pain and despondency

Its disgusting I know

we all stay cozy and space phone faded

When I come home

The first thing is excavating pockets

an act of defiance towards my own brain

I throw it everywhere

my disease has broken three phones

This has no purpose

Nor does is contain the thread of my own insecurities

its merely the ramblings of a mind finally breaking

its clearly time for the sleep that keeps eluding my trajectory

it will be a microscopic moment on a backdrop full of faceless collisions

My off switch is stuck on the green light

I wish I could wake up for a sun rise

instead of avoiding it like a criminal caught up in circumstance

Shaking the fur
off the holes in my skin,
microscopic, little dens
for every fox that comes my way.
They release,
instantly,
and I stand in the room,
bare and naked and bleeding and screaming
for the whole ******* world to
hear and hurt and hug and help and
love
me.
I'm crying and laughing and singing and dreaming
for the whole ******* school to
stop and see and sting and string
me
up
into the jewelry
wrapping their pretty,
little necks.
I am
inexpensive jewelry
to give to your
finest French *****.
Read me like
one of your nudey books,
I'm just a spreadshotted eagling on the
bareskin rug,
bearbottomed with the brutish blues
of the bruises and the bites.
And maybe I
want to hide,
to run and whisper myself
into the secret,
hidden spots behind every
shadowy curtain--
but when you're up and out
and over and through
and wrapped around their evil,
little eyes,
there's nowhere to go.
You're trapped in
every word they say,
the kind,
the cruel;
you're trapped like a rat
stuck inside a cat
stuck inside a dog
which was eaten by
a North Korean man last Kim Jong-il day.
You know,
they call that day
the
Day of the Shining Star--
and maybe the man
plastered on every poster,
draped carelessly on the street signs
and erotically fixating a nation
didn't want to be the Star, either;
maybe he never wanted to
be the constant, single thought
on each of their hateful,
dreadful little minds,
dredged into the
swamps and mires
of their moist
and
sweaty
dreams.
Maybe,
he, too,
didn't want to be the
*****,
drunken,
distasteful
STAR
of their hate.

it has been three days, and i am grasping at empty straws,
with holes that are microscopic, and i cannot
drink
anything.

it has been three days, and today i saw a motorcycle,
and resisted the urge to swerve into it,
so finally i could stop the buzz buzzbuzzing
in my no sense
brain.

it has been three days, and you are ignoring me,
and i can imagine last night you spent it between the legs
of some petit blond girl who is in love with you,
but you are in love with lust,
and i imagine her nights are pillow filled,
and moony-eyed.

it has been three days, and you still have my *******
jacket. but i am scared to step into your room,
you will speak with marbles and i will crawl, trying
to gobble them. you will crash, breaking my ribs and my
pride.
your fingertips will scar.
(i really like that jacket)

it has been three days.

The time set aside for daily rebirth
mutated and reconstructed itself
left you trapped
in a moonless portal that
even microscopic fissures
couldn’t let light penetrate.

Your eyelids sealed with glue
licked shut like an envelope.
You claw at your bed sheets
'till the blood runs from
beneath your fingernails,

imprisoned in semi-consciousness
flooded with reminiscence
you splash about like a child
satin chains wrap you to your bed
in this haunting trance.

You awaken to hail reverberating
off the window panes
with a twinge in your solar plexus
like it is now a vacant chamber
and a bone-chilling perspiration
dripping down your spinal column.

Seems as if it’s been eight years
since your head hit the pillow
but it feels like
the barrel of a revolver pressed
to your temple
thunder cracks like gunshots
for delicate ears.

The patience had worn too thin, it was time to break it she thought…

She took off to her feet, her mind racing through a million such instances..

With the weight in her heart increasing exponentially, her hands involuntarily searched for support

The railing was cruelly cold,just like him..

The rain had left thin droplets of water hanging on,

Ready to drop anytime, Showing an inverted microscopic image of the world before.

She had gone numb to it, her fingers trailed on their tips, killing them softly

Thin lockets of her hair swayed in rhythm with the wind, humming hymns to their tunes.

She felt his presence behind,

The arrogance of the gender had drained,

He was approaching with an application of apology,

She held firm, firm on stand, mentally and physically

Quickly expecting the defeat his words would face, he went in for the ultimate weapon of love.

The embrace swept away everything cold, both from the fingers and their hearts for they held on together

She shrugged him off softly,

Was it anger or was it greed for more?

Entwined as one, not a word was uttered, but volumes were expressed…

Him promising a better tomorrow,

Her promising an ampler patience.

The first steps you take as you enter the immaculate hallways of the first cathedral in Rome are the last ones taken out of fear.

Fear, you had always been full of it, of potential abandonment and quivering voices.

But here, the arches have beckoned years upon years of marveling, of eyes cast upward at staggering golden ceilings, light reflecting through the brilliance of violet stained glass.

This is the moment in which you realize that bravery exists in the aftermath. Just hours ago, you had boarded the suffocating plane all by yourself, red sneakers and matching suitcase, departing the same home that kept you calm for so long. With shaking hands and a hammering heart, you are buzzing with static electricity you were too afraid to understand before this moment.

Peeking out of the claustrophobic airplane window, you realize just how small you are, how microscopic everything seems just as soon as it has been defeated. And though your worries have taken shelter as a lump in your throat, they soon dissolve like sugar cubes in hot tea.

There is nothing left but tranquility.

Cascading blankets of translucent white hang daintily through the glass, blinding the plummeting ground from existence. This is the first time you have ever let yourself taste freedom.

And then, while your neck cranes down at the indigo expanse below you, you realize that the same blue is no longer taking shelter inside of your bones. Blue no longer runs through the paths of veins in your hands or in the moments in class you wished you would have said something but never did. Blue no longer remembers your writing and how easy it was to fit solitude in between the letters.

Blue, instead, is all around you, oceans below your feet like a collection of everything you were too heavy to hold onto.

Somewhere, miles and hours behind you, your mother is cooking dinner. She will leave an extra bowl of Monday night soup at your place at the dinner table, an accidental broth you will never taste. Your father’s heavy eyelids have collapsed, television humming white noise, cat on his shoulder as the peach-colored dusk melts into the room.

Yet you were there,

suspended miles of infinities above the same ocean you fell in love with back when you were even smaller than before. Back when your big brown eyes followed paths in the heavens, the soft glide of the ones brave enough to shuttle toward new horizons, redefining the notion of reckless abandon.

And now, you are here.

You are one of them.

Captivated, enveloped in the shadows of the masterpieces that have aged over thousands of lives that will never meet yours. You are a pioneer of your first real experience, marble statues and pillars the sole witnesses of your rebirth.

They are haunting, breathtaking, faces painted gracefully upon crumbling walls in colors that once made souls tremble in the same skies you had dreamed of, and then dreamed in.

You are here, surrounded by memories of light. And for a couple of moments tied together by blind hope, you forget that darkness once knew you by name.

Love is the dissent of all logic,
fueling chaos so microscopic its
only as chemical as the atom bomb.

My dear, if you were to cut me open,
to tear away my measly skin,
you would not find
the contents of an ordinary human being.
You would not find veins
or internal organs,
especially not a human heart.

Instead, you would find a battlefield, with freshly made bomb craters
and you would find discarded bullets,
fashioned from spiteful words,
that were perhaps destined for use on my worst enemies
but were instead aimed at myself.

You would find the remains of a daisy field
with the left over petals
looking vaguely like feathers
that fell from doves
or perhaps even angels.

You would find memories of a tiny village
once colourful and lively
but swept away by multiple hurricanes,
that took all happiness and innocence along with them.

Blood would not pour
from my lifeless body,
but dark cigarette smoke would seep from the wounds,
and if you closely investigated,
you would find that the fumes were made up of
microscopic black moths
that had all my lies and promises
carefully written all over their feeble wings

For I am not a human being, but simply a worn out shell of one.

This word was invented in 1935 by Everett M. Smith, president of the National Puzzlers' League (N.P.L.), at its annual meeting. The word figured in the headline for an article published by the New York Herald Tribune on February 23, 1935, titled "Puzzlers Open 103d Session Here by Recognizing 45-Letter Word":

Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis succeeded electrophotomicrographically as the longest word in the English language recognized by the National Puzzlers' League at the opening session of the organization's 103rd semi-annual meeting held yesterday at the Hotel New Yorker. The puzzlers explained that the forty-five-letter word is the name of a special form of pneumoconiosis caused by ultra-microscopic particles of silica volcanic dust...

Subsequently, the word was used in a puzzle book, Bedside Manna, after which time, members of the N.P.L. campaigned to include the word in major dictionaries.

This 45-letter word, referred to as "P45," first appeared in the 1939 supplement to the Merriam-Webster New International Dictionary, Second Edition.

“So don’t leave me here with only mirrors watching me.”

Refract these feathered images I see of myself in frames made of styrofoam and gold. Sing to me cream coloured envelopes filled with artificial symbols of the world which we claim to comprehend. Burn the books we’ve read like bibles and demand proteplanetary explanations to the questions that they were unable to answer. Travel through time into photographs of old women wearing even older hats while caught in the rain on a ****** sunday evening. If it were not for their black umbrellas, the spiders spinning webs from the heavens would weave and weave within their hair until silk and dead skin become one. Locks and locks will pile up at our feet as we dance under a kaleidescopal illusion of barely visible stars. They will not twinkle, but whisper, mutter dark commands into microscopic megaphones.You will flee; and I will continue feverishly twirling until the city no longer exists.

So, you need space.
Does space equal distance?
There’s a microscopic line between smothering and abandoning,
And I’m always rocking back and forth,
Even worse is when I’m balanced between the two,
Like a sitting duck,
Waiting,
Waiting for action.
Does space equal distance?
Because I want you right next to me,
But I know you need space,
to figure out your life.
It’s all just a macabre haze.
Deep and dark,
My hopes rest anxiously in a hidden catacomb,
Waiting for you to revive them,
Waiting.
Does space equal distance?
I don’t want to lose you.
I’m not ready to close the coffin on hope.
These tombs are too dark to see your expression.
And,
Where should I stand,
As to not smother or abandon
As to not be a duck
As to be just a girl,
As to be me?
Where do I stand to be me?
Me without theses troubles,
Me with you,
Where do I stand to be yours?

for mine own Yocum*

<>




a strange parting shot,
that we are are the refuse
upon this island Earth,
the very last item on some being's
weekly grocery list,
a list composed 'illions of years ago,
of things that could be worthy of
"creating"

this thought sticks to my soul,
like a rosé pink colored
NYC street'd, well chewed,
gum piece
adheres to my sole

the musical companion to this ecrivez,
a sinfonia for strings politely begs to differ,
while a hard covered book
dances me over to Texas,
Dudamel conducts Barber,
all making the question of
man as an afterthought
in a divine master plan for a planet,
seems almost recklessly absurdly nonsensical


then

my cell buzzes me back to this

******* hell earth

seven more cops shot, three dead

down in the bayou of Baton Rouge,
on a sabbath Sunday morning

rouge red now assumes,
takes on a different
notation colorations,
to my bleeding eyes,
delivering importations
of  headaches confusion rampage,
red rage

the amplification of the worst of we,
afterthought creatures surely,
why "create a destroyer,"
an absurd contradictory term,
so we are gift wrapped  
beneath the misleading approbation -
human

there is no nobility in our savagery,
or dare I sneer and say,
in our humanity

you cannot seal a wound with music

you cannot revive the dead with a poem ear-whispered

sitting beneath the tree shade
of my privileged place,
my surrounding world is
bay blue and grass green,
my vision myopic,
I am a self-centered,
microscopic collection of red cells

conceding to you Sargeant,
this designer of the human form,
who wrought it from
soiled earth and excess rib bone,
had a peculiar sense of humor,
a comedian full of
malice aforethought,

for are we not
the final joke,
for someone's bemusement

we must have come last,
because you always
want to leave them
laughing

This is not about you.
This is not about
the transmutation
of your jail celled mind
wrapped in self-help
and cellophane.

This is not about
your new found
discovery
discovering me
and my afflictions
according to the
white man’s diction
a dictation
of my past
extracted
and examined
under the microscopic
power of time.

This is not about
your self-defined
enlightenment
when you made
a deal to unearth
the truth of HeLa
coated in dust
covered particles
of HeLa
on your nightstand
and I laid
in a grave
unmarked.

This is not about
my big lips
and thick hips
under ***** covers
running a sweat
fever on my thighs
shaking feet in stirrups
and the pain was rich
after a tight pinch
and I didn’t know
what part of me
had been snipped
to grow cold
and never die.

No, this is not about you.

This is about me.
A historic legacy
left to thrive across the time
less chains of nucleic
tidal waves
Covalent bonds
could never rival
the strides of this soul
miles beyond
the distant
COLORED ENTRANCE
something brewing
inside dividing
inexplicable replication,
readying for harvest
behind a dried tobacco field

There is a beach
on the other side of America.
It snuggles in close
between Massachusetts
and the Atlantic Ocean.
If you put aside your fears,
girl,
you can walk in the water.
Nothing will hurt you,
you can see the bottom.
You can discover hermit *****
and sea glass,
smoothed down from
the turmoil of churning waves
and grains of sand.
You can explore new things,
girl,
if you can slip off your sandals
and examine the tide pools.
The barnacles’ little arms wave,
snatching microscopic food
from nowhere.
Tiny, tiny anemones grow,
tucking up inside themselves
if your fingers brush them.
This is a magical place,
girl.
Take nothing but pictures,
memories, and smooth
sea glass.

What you want is what I want,
You knew from the start my heart was cracked
And my love like a cornered animal;
Just as likely to strike
Or play dead,
Claw at the walls
Or eat a pumpkin seed from out of your palm.
What we want
It must count for something,
Beside the fulfilment of what we need.
It is not greed to desire,
And seek fulfillment,
But the microscopic cuts carefully concealed,
They yield ugly harvests
That lose all value on the way to the market.
I want to be the golden armored knight
On the titanium white charger,
But my armor is tarnished silver,
My steed a coal black mare.
Still, in my mind you run,
Free through a painted field,
Each brush stroke a daffodil,
Yellow and white waving at your feet.
You laughed and beckoned,
And I chased you
And caught you.
And we tumbled down the hill
Wrapped up in each other,
Giggling and shouting.

I have this image.
It is enough.
But I want more.

Being on a slide under the microscope
of some mad scientist too big to comprehend
is not my idea of how things are

But from the point of view of all the microscopic bugs living on or in the Human body I can concede that they may well have this kind of simple understanding of how things are

Much can happen
In the space
Between the marks
Of the seconds
On a clock

The world could turn
Into a murky brown puddle
Of **** and shitstains
That dirties the boots
Of all the people
On the way to work
Or home to the wife
And twelve kids

The room with white walls
Slowly but surely
Turns to one with black walls
That sweat dark pearls
That melt the doorknob,
Block the windows,
And cover the door

The bubbles in the bath
Burst and leave clear water
That hold your floating filth
In microscopic specks
And the flickering light
Flirts with you
To dip your head and fall asleep
In the fading warmth

I walk this hall; it is full but no attention goes to me.
I am a ghost among mortals.
My size would make you assume that I am seen, but inside, I make myself microscopic.
I don't want to be noticed, because the last time I was noticed, the most attention was a slap in the stomach, and a slur of slander creeping through my ears.
The thought never leaves.
It invades and cannot be driven out.
So yes I choose to go unnoticed.
My fears help me do that.
"He should be talking to others."
"He should play with the other kids."
Look at them.
They feel they know how to make it better.
They think they can fix me.
What do they know the closest to bullying they know is limited to Hollywood bullying.
But what do they know.
This new breed of bullying, this evolution of condemnation is unreal to them.
I want to believe them,
I want help.
But the more they try the more I want to do this by myself because silence is where I find peace, Silence does not call me fat.
Silence does not laugh at the way I dress or the way I walk.
So this is why I choose silence. This is why I'm invisible


*I dedicate this poem to the people who made me not want to live. your efforts to destroy me simply made me stronger; thank you

It was to be a new beginning, a new start for myself.
I was to leave all that behind, and start on something new.
I was to find a haven after leaving such a hell,
And remind myself that I was strong after what I'd been through.

I took a strength in finding new relations in my world,
An escape from what I used to live, the pain that I endured.
I tried to make myself a place, so fate could then unfurl,
And so it seemed that, for a time, I'd made one - I was sure.

And so in months that followed, I offered all I had.
I soon saw how very little I'd changed - I was no better now.
I thought summer had given me that edge I'd need at hand,
But I was just as stupid, and naive; I wondered, how?

I questioned what I hadn't done, or what I still could do,
So that they wouldn't take from me more than I had to give.
Not too long after leaving home, I found out it was true -
Some people never do grow up, despite how long they live.

And yet, the hopeful optimist, eyes bright with certainty,
Continued all these patterns that were aimed to self-destroy.
She grasped on to the skinny straws of soft naivity,
And refused, yet, to believe that she was anybody's toy.

It was her own undoing, all those times that followed suit.
She should have seen it coming, should have seen what lay ahead.
It should have been no great surprise, what her labors had produced,
And yet she cried herself to sleep, in a cold dormitory bed.

She knew not where to turn, she found, for none would understand.
"Grow up," they said, "man up," they said - "welcome to the world."
But it was not so simple! she would scream, at their demands.
She wasn't built for toughness, this rather softhearted girl.

Was it too hard to understand, that it was her instinct,
To look for good in others, no matter how they did her wrong?
Was it too hard yet to justify, that maybe they were linked? -
The people who would ridicule, and how they came along?

Time passed and passed; at times, it dragged; she wondered where it led.
What **** good was it doing her to bear the world's foul weight?
Was this rather beaten path going to drop her on her head?
Was THIS God's woven plan for her - was this her golden fate?

It wasn't until later that she did just as they said.
She stopped performing high demands, stopped believing in that "good."
Unless they'd ever prove it, she would distance them, instead.
For words and actions differ, and she knew they always would.

Leaving such a sheltered home, ****** out into the world,
Had given her a head start into what could have been her end.
She still retains her emphasis on nourishing her pearl,
Which grows from helping others, when they truly need a friend.

It has made her grow, learn, learn to grow, and she has grown to learn.
It is not what we do in life, but on whom it is bestowed.
There will always be so many who will take what they've not earned,
And what you let them take from you becomes not yours alone.

Guard your heart, and guard your mind - their value is unreal.
It is but your decision with whom you share these precious gifts.
Your actions are a letter, and your words may be the seal,
And they both have the ability to form bonds, or form rifts.

It is not for me to say how we should go about these things.
For do we ever really know who truly cares the most?
It is a trial-and-error process, and sometimes, yes, it truly stings.
But you cannot have the parasites if you are not the host.

I have fought my way through many, who so convingly, would "care."
I've picked my way through many fruits, looking for only good.
But this never-ending orchard (sometimes I'd rather not be there),
Is a microscopic labyrinth, which I'd leave, if I so could.

It is a funny thing, it seems, the way we all behave.
Some are content to give and give - it brings the greatest joy.
For others, it is take and take, that they so strongly crave,
And all the "gratitude" they show is nothing but a ploy.

I've been around the bend and back, through friends and enemies.
I try my best to DO my best, no matter what the cost.
I know that some will never change, some things will always be.
And there will be many I've loved, and more that I have lost.

I stand a taller woman, now, knowing what I can give.
A frightened woman, sometimes, knowing not what's coming next.
But prepared for greater battles, I face the life I plan to live,
Hoping to make a difference that others can reflect.

I find myself still standing here, after many darker times.
I'd like to say that it is through, that finally, it's done.
But as I cannot lie to thee, I still commit these crimes.
And now again, I ask myself: have I really overcome?

Perhaps I have, perhaps I've not, perhaps I still yet will.
I cannot see tomorrow, and I cannot repeat today.
Yesterday's a memory, a photograph that's still,
And though I may be frightened, I am not at all afraid.

The coca-cola breath!
Flashing lights, tweetie birds, the rough narcotic stench

The sky is devoid, it is scared of the streets etched in starlight, everything shining-- tangerine and Coit and ohhhh boy
don't'cha know what you're in for?

Twilight and she is a figment on my mind
the bark of cigar is fiery opal on my slender frame
I can hear something along the lanes of love
Echoing behind me, the rising sun

Funny dudes in new suits, pressed, steamed, machine-rolled
pills in the pockets
shipped locomotive
Every etching has its china
every etching is porcelain skin
The fog is a silken balloon, unconcerned, wayward
The men longingly abide in its cool, the breath of an over-excited lover, singing in the showerhead an embarrassing microphone
over the west coast

It's all over! it's the end
the roads are devoid of the things that called you
They are a clarion horn on the Claremont, facades etched with windowpanes
here the americans eat tofu and pretend it's bacon

I am in the rapidly rotating spoke, enjoying the taste of woodchuck, upchucking my guts every Sunday, white knuckle-- praying to god
release
release

what a steal that's a fantastic car for the price!
it is only 10 years of payment
only 10!
House worth 40, kids worth 60, medicinal payments
corn flakes
Fortified iron gates and god says,
naw let them all out until they drown,
I'll never flood the earth but I'll make it puddles
and if they want they can lay face down

I am eating Korean stew and wondering what will happen
when unification builds a railroad from Moscow to Busan
I will travel it and write a novel or two
it will be
"On the Railroad"
and start in San Francisco or a little while outside
on an October evening with not a fog in the sky
Just sky, blue, blue sky
A child on the hillside
blowing bubbles in the apartment complex or the gravel mound
next to new homes, now cookiebread gingerbed frames
Doing tricks on BMX bikes, getting our elbows smashed, a designated paramedic
It's all built up now, concrete streets and lonely streetcorner lamps saying
Hey we're gonna light up this little space
Hope you don't mind
Please don't play too loud

And given that these spheroids are monumentally moving
hurling like a pitched water glass
everything staying put under the motion of it
Such a lovely rooting of mass

I will call alongside it, crawling towards answers etching on murals and on the stamping of curbs
E-5 West main
4451 Lowell Street
554 Happy Valley Road
It's all the fun little tributaries of surface waters
heading with precognition towards seas
roped into it by specific gravity

On the phone i spoke to Mr. Victorious
I asked him about his particular drone
down south there in the more direct limelight of the night
he told me about his uncle, in prose
of course
we just hung our heads over the speakerphone
Not sleeping the way we should
shouldering burdens as ***** in deserted zones
laughing and preaching to cottonfields

Then there was the girl
the one we forgot, truth be told
The one unrequited impetus for all art, all physicality and feeling
loved by god in the corporeal
She is the saffron reed in my eye, the one i forgot to preach Victory to
She that one oblong pebble, rolled by the stream
passing our campgrounds and continuing her journey to sands
small little microscopic tetrahedral perfection
I could get stuck in between my teeth
or perhaps left on the sweat of the skin
the lost moments of beachside living, love for the expansiveness, left in the diner seat of the car, gotta keep moving
Carrying her away and if not careful,
nestling her back atop the summits from whence she came.

it is a cola in the glass on the shores of the bay,
it is a divine moment of contact in the oceans
two sailors acknowledging their vessels
with light shows and the play of eye
off the horizon, a green light o' sprite.

I wish I was a dragonfly,
Blue in the shimmering sun
Settling on the tropical palms,
When my breeze guided journey was done.

The tips of my wings would softly skim
The water of the pool,
A microscopic dragon in flight
My eyes, two kaleidoscope jewels.

My family would have existed for three million years,
Or more,
But I shall glide for just six weeks,
Enough time to see, what’s worth flying for.

What a marvel,
The truth that we
Are dying from the
Moment we have
Come to life,
Our existence is mere
Tug and pull between
De- and regeneration,
Our body prods our cells on,
Pumping short-lasting elixir
Into their microscopic selves,
Ions and stars of energy
Rushing in and gushing out,
We are nothing but
The friendly contest
Between flourish and decay,
One will lose tomorrow,  
The other concedes today.

Poetry, as I perceive it,
And no offence, alright;
Is not this:
Writing as I would speak to someone
Only stacking the lines one on top of the other
Instead of next to it, in a paragraph.
If I were to put my strophes in a straight line, and end up with a Facebook status,
No matter how great,
This is not my poetry.

What poetry is
The lick of moonlight that betrays the mouse’s tail
The crickets over the careful cat’s march
And a microscopic last breath between a crush of the fangs.

Matter.
Just matter.
Microscopic dust particles on earths surface.
My significance in this universe of galaxies, super novas and giant stars is hard to comprehend when a single thought is able to consume my every waking moment.
That thought?
I'm insignificant.

Paddling my ****** canoe down the whispering waters
With my fishing rod in hand,
I acknowledge the persevering tree buds,
The attention seeking trilliums,
Dazzling all eyes and intoxicating logocentric thinkers.
The perch and bluegill aim to impress my lures,
And wish to give my martyrdom-like worms salvation in the highest sense.
Into the ocean I proceed, jumping ship to swim the length of my beaches,
My spaces of leisure and relaxation.
The May flies clench my shirt in their microscopic fists,
Dropping me cleanly into the nook of the reading tree,
Where I monkey-swing down through the branches,
Onto my napping hammock-
This I cannot call my own, but I act as such.
Yet before I drift,
And the sun begs for bedtime,
I climb, dog leash in hand,
To the top of my mountain,
Where I coo our Star to sleep
And bid the moon good morning.
But too quickly does my rule end of these kindled nights,
As another power swoops up under my running shoes,
At the same time blanketing me in my parka,
My cave until the kayaks hum and vibrate again.
My mountain sheeted in snow,
I resort to observing this complete different beauty
Through the hood of my oversized coat,
While from above my ski poles click into their fitted sockets on my hands,
The only way left to triumph over this land mass I call my own.

For me these seasons progress too quickly,
Yet been it this way for centuries.
Mother Nature shows off her powers as she extinguishes my campfire
With a wintery gust of thinning atmosphere,
And little do the birds complain as they frantically scratch at every remaining frost-lacking beetle.
Life goes on just as planned
While the Does and Coyotes huddle for warmth in their newly knitted sweaters.