your life,
your choice,
your breadth,
your noise,
all as chirpings
of fresh-hatched birds.
wake up
and roll over
and get the fuck
out of my bed.
Posts published in “Poems”
perhaps early primates
developed a lack of hair due to the
fire they harnessed; less fur, less
hair, less of a mane, and they would
survive in close proximity of
the open flame.
When holding all breath inward,
The head appears to be as
Rolling, backward, tilting
Over crest of hill,
Into darkness,
The waiting,
Still.
This time
he’ll come,
he’ll come up and he’ll say,
“Hey there, smart guy, won’t
you introduce me to your girl?”
This time
he’ll come up,
come up and say,
“Hey there, you there, won’t you
give me a chance to apologize?”
This time,
this time he’ll come up,
“Say, you wouldn’t know
the way to Saint Moreau’s?”
a wind fell
and i, a stranger,
listened, to be but
awoken, waking, still,
as rustling now-friendly breeze
play’ kind words upon these, thoughts.
i keep becoming
caught
on words i know not,
phrases i’ve said
yet give no hint towards their meanings, truth.
i say such things as,
“i wish the world would stop
turning, so i may..”
and others, too, i say:
“i realize what words
are worth, though eyes
lead more to be known.”
i catch myself
being caught on them,
as though what i’ve said
already is not enough,
and i am caught,
again,
in turn of phrase/of
lung’d wind, and i
hold out their clarity,
though they be but brief,
as thoughts,
clouded-climbing, climb
and fall, as though an
emperor being tossed
to pit through air
of all.
and what a memory i have, this
confused grin, all but wordings in
a solid stance, a state i knew
but follow not, as though my head,
in slump,
went through the turnings of the mind,
forced to be, eternally, in lack of ‘wind.
i wish
i were normal,
though i know
i am anything but.
i wish
i were able to sustain a thought for longer
than the words take to escape.
i wish i were not afraid,
and held out my hand,
rather than keep it close,
and turned, palm-down,
as i may help others–
no, that i do not wish,
as they always need help,
and, by being this way,
i, and they, both benefit.
i wrestle with my fingers
to type a single sentence,
and i wonder how crazy i am.
i feel half-made, half-wandered,
likening myself to some cloud,
whose grey-belly’d drag of sky
leads, eventually, toward
drenchings of those fortunate few
beneath.
there was a chore i once completed,
i believe it was taking out the trash,
and that one was, to me, a make up of
all priors, incomplete; how selfish
the childish mind, when thinking
only of the actions, mine, and with no real resemblance
to a child, daughter, son, of one whose
wishes were as simple as
to push a mop or vacuum.
knowledge is but knowing,
holding on to what is you,
and giving back some piece,
autonomous as that may be.
[{()}]see the eye for what it’s worth:
great craftsmanship,
and little else;
or, better, hold the body
in breeze, and know,
through motions, movements,
breathes the world,
this, and these.
i don’t think sunrises exist, though. i think they’re just a propaganda, giving everyone an excuse to rise early. but i say fuck that, yo. i’m not rising early for that, just to see some myth. i’m not. i’m just not going to. stop poking me. i said i’m not. don’t you dare. i’ll– alright, i’ll wake up early.
your paradise is now. you know nothing other than your situation, and the situations of those allowing you to know them, whether through their shortcomings, or their boastings. your ability is based solely on who you can become, not who you are. i never believed the world was anything more than this ship, which we ride, and allow ourselves to traverse the galaxy with. i now think we are so unimpressionable that we are implanted with thoughts derived from those around us, and, as such, are some amalgamation of those we’ve seen and been around, and, therefore, are only ourselves when taken from those, or walking from those, and giving ourselves a chance to accept the light which abounds the entire world. just as a plant takes a millennium to evolve to accept shade and shadow as its only source of light, we are evolving to accept only shade and shadow in prominence, and to do away with, unless artfully done, our light’s source.
A man who respects a good pen deserves said pen.
i want to run, awake to a smile and closed eyes.