Posts published in “Poems”

Your hands, more clubs, blunted, held out as to reach close only for need of nourishment; Your eyes, open, all of you within them, wanting only a moment’s passing ‘to the next; Your nose, visible, covered slightly with an aura, held for need of where to be; Your lines, arms, thick-pelted with the food, the warmth, you’ve not forgotten was given in sacrifice; Your hood, closed on skin of neck, of ears, lying to keep down the hair you’ve grown; You swallow. Another night’s distance and these legs, friends in rain, may hold but as scene long-sought in memory. You take in breath, holding not but a second ‘fore you lose that stench of flesh, half yours, half theirs, your wamrth of limbs. You widen lips, yet, closed, keep them, wanting scrunch of cheeks in vision, welcoming to the eye’, lonely in their passings of the nose. A branch, low, hangs for you to lower yourself, accepting & rejoicing, silently, with appreciation, the scraping of its naked hands upon your scalp, your thin-coated view, unseen by eyes. You lower hood to shoulders, hoping, soon, another may grant such comfort of company; the only friend a walker has being the shake of hand, of leaves by head, knees, limbs-up, or breaths hard-breathed; so welcoming, the sound the slide of seed upon the mind, much less the covering.

Sky.

You wake, slightly prior to your stumbling ’bout, with water needed by your sleep-dried mind, and your hands, beside your thighs, hang as do weakened vines from branches, trunk’, along the trees.

but i’ll be around longer than the words can be spoken, and, somehow, i’ll know whether you’re right, and you’ll know whether i’m right, and we’ll go our separate ways enough to meet at the end of the world, never turning around, but comin back just the same.

His is a belly, which, upon waking, tells him what he’s missing, whether through touch, through warmth, through the crisp-chill of winded blankets/sheets, or through the bacterial grunts of, “fooood..”

What you should have no knowledge of is how simple life and living are. Yeah, they are the same thing, but there are more, too. To say one is the other may seem ludicrous, but living is death is life is birth is hope is salvation is comprehension is universality is peace is struggle is suffering is famine is death is living is life. And what stands out among all of those syllables and ceremonies? Is you crazy? Comparisons are mediocre. I need definitives.

Gravity:

The bottle tipped over– Gravity won.
The bottle stood still– The bottle defied gravity.
The bottle tilted a bit– Gravity struggled.

Gravity is bullshit. What goes up must come down, unless what goes up does not come down. Motion leads to motion, unless motion is stopped. You know, the laws or theories of this realm of thinking, Science, are so abhorrently wrong, that one may see such things as a religion– you must, before you understand, believe. But, all religions are bullshit. They’re as a cackle of birds: one speaks, another speaks, so assumptions are made that all seek to speak, whether they do or not. If one does not, then they are seen as, “abnormal,” or a new species (that comparison is wrong– I believe in the science of collecting information, whether on species, areas, or beliefs and occurrences, but the science of creating what are seen as , “constants,” are to be kept within the realm and era from which they are observed, and not to be spread amongst different eras or situations, as how a baby would splatter its food over the kitchenware/table, just because it’s easy and fun to do). I know what I’m experiencing, and I draw assumptions and ideas from this constant experience, piecing together a thought with another, and planting a knowledge, whether wrong or right, about what is. I do see things I know are wrong, such as throwing trash on the park ground, or taking a loaf of bread without paying for the loaf, but those effect me in a manner that is not hatred for the doers, or sadness for having done so, but as a means to remember what action was taken, and to perform another if said action is not to my personal liking, or to partake in the freedom of being actionless, however bland or bold such a move may be. This is a rambling; I’m not going back to gravity, as I believe gravity to be a fast way of thinking of the rotation of the Earth in a level, mentally, that may even itself along the shortcuts and diagrams drawn before, without having an experience or a seed planted to see and feel such occurrences in a manner that would be without words, but, rather, with a fluidity of thought, much like the spider, hanging from their web, though their web may eventually be run through or drenched or shook away, but that’s why the spider’s method is within the spider, and not of a single use.

I once believed the world was round. Now, I see the world is bending, perfectly aligned so you may not see everything at once, a sort of triangular spiral; though, I might not be entirely sure of the positioning– are we near the opening end, the closing end, or between both, or is there no real end, but, instead, a straight-lengthed maze, hedged about with fine-clipped shapes, but, somewhere, the clippings– the excesses– have to be accounted for.. Nothing is so much a question as an answered statement, waiting to be neatly placed within the realm of comprehension’s ? ! structure.

i want to be as miniature; amongst the dandelion’s greyed flower, watching and striving to hold on as the wind-lifted florets find their way on streams unseen in air, as voices so often do.

I read a story today; more a headline, really:
Wild Bees And The Flowers They Pollinate Disappearing Together.
While a study in Britain, the word may spread
toward the cities, the streets, the neighbor’s
Of the colonies, toward the parks, where the last
wild flowers spring to be bladed by
the last of the green grass let roam free, alone
with the nutrients of a soiled Earth, baked
by the Sun, more-less the hands of a chef;
so tolerant, they, these petallers, fal’n on
grass, on ground, free from such worries as
pestilence and pesticides, be it by
bite or might of spite for the na’tral; the
hold of the ship brought cries of mutiny,
the unseen immigrants, left to end where they are;
But all brings match of Bee from Park, Tag,
a game of Care, of Worry-Not, but I do.

such candy’d liquor, this, a band
about the view of new-laid sand,
dust but wayed on line, a level seen,
though lost, with wanderings.

as much as i try to,
i fail to leave you;
hope the world
would just let us be–
let us be comfortable,
without all the wounds
left healing, while we
focus on other things–
things we never say we need,
but always fall back on
when there’s nothing else to do.

i tried erasing you
from my memory;
so fragile the thought
of giving in and letting go,
but i never found the strength;
i always failed when i never tried hard enough.

there’s a light i look to
when the clouds are clearly grey and nothing can reach us from above;
there’s a lightness of the air i never
look toward, but always find when there’s time enough
to stand and wait for
the thoughts of pressure to fall away, sideways,
letting the skin open and air the aggression of this body
now calm, for the world doesn’t need another madman;
just another romantic, graced by all of the life left to be.

i sit and walk by
all that we had,
i look to repeat them,
but know there’s better to be done;
yet, i follow
all their courses,
break my head on the sounds, not said,
but wished away too often to
stay, except when you come back
and tell me everything i never needed to hear.
i felt you from afar and knew this would be all i’d be able to say to you,
even though so much more need be said without words, alone.
i, fragile, feel you breaking me,
and you, light, lift me higher;
and i know love when you whirl ’round my impure skin.

take a look at the worlds from far, looking
back on you,
though you know not from where, but know they are,
somehow,
loving you without a need of being brought back for more;
and we don’t know why.