In
writing on 09.22.09 at 11:18:45 PM
adjustment is for the hair draping
across the whisper in moments
of who we are,
certain that
we will grow to be what we
just knew in the portions
of hues found at the
top of a painting flume.
evolution is for the fingers slipping
along the paradoxical spine
of who we never plan to
become,
but who we can’t wait to
become once we know
what it is to be that wave
cresting on a sand sharp
with every reason why
we should and every
moment when we couldn’t.
metamorphosis is for the wings flitting
over jet streams left by
every notion that we know,
we weren’t mistaken!
we scrawl across the river banks
nor were we taken by nor forgotten about
on that history that we
curl up like a map of treasure
on an island left in the
pacific of our life.
change is for us,
not because we need newness
or perfection,
but
precisely because every
mistake we know we can make
is subdued by
every hope we know we
feel in the empty bedded
thunderclap midnights teaming
with a cocoon left
to the right of all the time
we take to become
you
and me
and us
and we.
In
writing on 08.20.09 at 11:49:27 AM
here is a match lit in
my hand.
the sulphur tipped wooden
recalcitrant caller telling me
that in these seconds, prior to
us inhaling,
we are alive.
that match can ignite the stack
of books written by the fresh hands
of teenage wanderers who
know pentameter but choose to disregard.
there is a lantern lit in
your hand.
the cave stretching out before
us with the ruddy clay imposed
midnight echoing the paths
we get lost in
searching
for your flame.
that lantern can reflect the image
of a flashlight in our mouths
orange with wonder and red
with youth.
there is a fire burning with
your embers.
slow and smoldering with blue green
hot hiding the subtleties of
the crackled fizz pop
of my
explosion.
In
writing on 08.11.09 at 12:19:45 PM
when i was four i fell in
love with a woman named
Stephanie who flew away
as she had appeared
with the exchange of a
land that can only be
fathomed by photographers
who leave the frame open
too long.
when i was fourteen i fell
for that girl who i hadn’t
noticed talking in a tongue
that only the mountain men
understand after they
spend nights wandering through
the hills mixed with Pyrenees
like the wild cry left by the
hand of a painter we all argue
about the existence of.
when i was twenty-four i
flew across the dried out
ocean of years gone past
like Odysseun happenstance
to that location just above the
explorers belt where he hangs
a knife sharp with
moments washing away every
gathered bauble of recently carved
rivers.
now that i am thirty i see
that every drop down the well
with a bucket tied to ropes
bound and braided by a life spent
knowing that love is what destiny
wishes it could be,
that affection is what fate
could never hope to be.
now that i am thirty i see
that every voyage is just
chaos casting a sail
and we,
we are left to imperfectly
navigate a new direction home.
In
writing on 08.11.09 at 12:17:37 PM
if i could go back
and advise myself about life:
words are pretty great.
In
writing on 08.06.09 at 09:54:50 AM
your huff and puff
is exactly the tone I want
to hear every night.
In
writing on 08.05.09 at 02:52:09 PM
glass
is slow moving liquid
i hear.
like time that
is
vacuumed up (by all of
these volcanoes) as
hope
finds the magma sliding
down the edge of granite
hawaiin flower fossils’
inertia.
crystal
is formed by limpets
my dear.
like a creature
is
the (three atmospheres
of the ocean) floor’s
reflection
snapping pictures, while
laughing at how we shine
in their electric
subterfuge.
diamonds
are bound by sand
i fear.
like false conviction
that
(establishes a value
to everything) a
futurist
elipitically ascribes like
laser guided conjecture,
sleeping at the end
of our quarks.
emerald
always is made of
green.
as the gleam you
like
at the tippy-top of
(sequoias that climb
you)
hand over hand over
heart over head,
upward reading the
rings we save for tomorrow.
In
writing on 07.26.09 at 09:09:27 PM
i wonder if i told you?
Why there was this one
time that i lost the book
of nursery rhymes collected by
a madman on his last holiday
to south america by the amazon
river filled with the pink porpoises
and poisonous cavalcade of empiric fish.
i didn’t?
Well i once lost a journal written
by an astronomer on his last
voyage past pluto, which we know
isn’t a planet but orbits every
single one of those paintings
that were hung up in the louvre
by a janitor who stole them
from every poet trying to be classified.
i told you about that already?
How about the one time that i found
a parchment written out by revolutionaries
that at the end said it was all a joke
and that all they really wanted was some
more tea since a bunch of scientists
had performed an experiment with the tides
sifting through the harbor of their midnight.
In
life,
writing on 07.26.09 at 05:40:35 PM
So yet again, here is one of my essays that are more for me to parse who I am and what I believe than anything else. As always, you can feel free to skip on by if you are just here for the poetry (and the new addition of haiku!). But, truly, what would be the fun in just skipping to the short stuff, when there is so much more craziness to read?
Continue down this rabbit hole »
