[ 08.31.2011 ]

A baby sun was born
in front of me,
and it was growing bigger,
growing brighter
as it performed atomic miracles
inside it’s colossal body.

It illuminated my mind with wonder
as it poured sunlight on my face,
igniting my tears
like supernovas
before I receded into the shade
at the realization
that its birth was only possible
because of the death of its parents,
and I built enough supernovas
to erase the shadows from the universe.

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[ 08.30.2011 ]

Haunting my way
through the empty universe,
so full of violent sounds
like spaceships
crash landing on strange soil,
far from Earth
and all its vague optimism –
for greener lands,
for greater things,
for holy hands,
for men with wings.

I feel like a ghost
with no life to relive,
just searching in space
for a reason to breathe,
or a reason to stay,
or a reason to leave.

[ 08.26.2011 ]

Before I could save you,
you washed up on foreign shores
with monsters and strangers
that I never thought you’d leave me for.

Where is your anchor now?
Where is your anchor now?
Where is your anchor now?

My waters are raging,
and I’ll make sure I sweep you
away with the waves that
I’m making just to carry you home.

Where is your anchor now?
Where is your anchor now?
Where is your anchor now?
I’m still wondering how
you ever sailed these seas
and why you always look to me
to fill your careworn sails,
while you only seem to blow through me.

I’ll make
these waves
until
you’re safe.

[ 08.25.2011 ]

When we met in Xanadu
at the foot of golden steps,
I thought I had known you
once, but you were only
a reflection of the sun
that beats down on me.

Now the empire is gone,
and all that remain
are tired earthen walls,
but someday I’ll find
someway to reach you
and leave this place behind.

[ 08.20.2011 ]

What will it take
to reach the apex of illumination,
the end of my explorations?

Galaxies away,
where creation and destruction intersect
in the tired air
of timeworn space,
awaits the merciful embrace
of preservation.

And somewhere
only arm’s length from us,
beyond the malign transfi(ct)ion of entropy,
I have hope of greener suns.

[ 07.14.2011 ]

If I could make you hear
what I hear,
then maybe I’d hear more
from you.

But we are buried
underneath the shade in the park,
praying that the earth
will be lifted from our throats
so we can make noise
again.

And, someday,
maybe the trees above us
won’t make you feel so closed-in,
so you can finally look up.

[ 08.11.2011 ]

A lowered voice and a nervous laugh,
the aching heft of a soul
performing mimicry atop the trunk of a car
parked arm’s length (too far away)
from another car.

Given life in the heat of summer,
and concealed beneath a tarp in the fourth year,
an apple tree is wilting
as you and I labor to decide where to bury the seeds
(somewhere they cannot grow.)

[ 08.07.2011 ]

The trees will shelter me
with their loving branches
in the summertime,
and they will bury me
beneath their mountains of red
in the harvest
to become a prismatic igloo
(mottled with sunny leaves)
in the wintertime –
the safest place to hide.

[ 07.27.2011 ]

I filled a bottle with my sweat,
and it meant nothing at the time;
I just had better things to do
than write poetry with rhymes
or talk philosophy among tedious strangers
and tedious friends.

Sometimes I wish I were a tree
so I wouldn’t need to have friends;
I’d just stand tall
and sip on sunshine all day,
ignoring any birds who tried to speak to me
by pretending to be deaf.

I would reach skywards,
trying to catch clouds in my branches for fun,
and I’d wish my leaves were hands
so I could grab at them better.

The sunlight felt like electromagnets
and radio static on my face this morning,
reminding me that the sun doesn’t mean to sustain us
but to claim us as casualties of chance;
it made me sweat.

[ 07.26.2011 ]

Your baby teeth are falling out;
our baby girl is growing up.

(I pray she won’t be a whore.)

You try to act like a woman,
but those fangs coming in give you away;
what did you hear in the snow
that made your tongue turn so brittle?

Slow deep breaths,
I can see your life disperse in the cold air
and it’s making me sick with
retained smoke,
choking me just to escape my chest
to freedom
like miasmatic renegades without a purpose
or consciousness.

(That shade of red really is lovely on you, though.)