Posts for June 19, 2018 (page 4)

 I can’t imagine that I’ll see the world passing.
  I’ll rip apart my soul, just to try to stand still.
  Sell the pieces to my beloved, however much worth they have.
  I can’t see the present, but I remember it happening.
  The way it goes is so set in stone, and you only tear it down when your trips over.
  I hope to see old age, but it’s pure luck and fantasy to be fooled into believing  you’ll have something more than memories.
  21 seems so old, and I’m already growing cold.
  I wake at night wondering if it’s better to stay asleep my whole life.
  Dreaming memories of hanging strings of light.
  Yesterdays years behind you before today is over.
  Somethings pulling me along, but I can’t see it yet.
  It’s hidden by the living.
  My words aren’t yet profound, my age not yet respected.
  Put down in haste in the mornings and nights, these are what I leave the world.
  Strings of lights holding together my words and memories.
  A chain that never ends.
  I can see the present, but it’s so fuzzy.
  I hope to see it better as I crawl along.

For every problem, a self-help book,
for every dry spot, a lotion.

For each kind of flaw, a remedy,
a baguette for each bottle of wine.

A gold ring for each finger,
pearls to grace every neck.

A diet for each over-eater,
a flag for every pole.

For each soldier a salute,
for each undertaker, a corpse.

For every philosopher, a theory,
an explantion of the meaning of life

that inspires college freshmen,
makes sense of it all

until a tornado blows the house off the foundation
or a fuzzy-haired baby is born.

i don’t think 
it’s a coincidence 
that the cycle 
of the moon
and the cycle 
of my body
are both 
28 days long.
when trying out
new skincare-
be aware-
it takes 28 days
for your skin
to finish
its cycle 
and come back
around.
so give it time.
february-
the month of love-
(apparently)
takes 28 days
(typically).
and i’ve always
kind of wondered
if that’s why
blood
seems so romantic.

i
Emerging bramblebirthed from rabbit hole,
A place for quietwork.
Like an earthworm, purified by seclusion and rainwater
Turned mudflood baptism.
ii
Emerging bittersuite from from throne room,
A time for sombersong.
Like a clowncrowned prince, purified by laughter and laughter,
Turned regalflame baptism.

leafy green reach
for sun and rain

muted violet attempt
to come to a head

my own private
liturgy of the church

of the spreading 
vegetative god

last two stanzas from THE OVERSTORY

Although not a singer,
her voice, sweet lullabies
hypnotizing  us with warm, 
soft tones
Reprimands were greeted with
thanks. 

Strung out like all the miles stretched between us,
a week is a long time to be away
from a despondent story with too many elements
still jostled about like ships on an angry ocean.

Glimpses of home have become my escape
from this too long escape from home,
the pictures you post that make me smile
when the frothing waves caress my bare feet.

Love is sacrifice
the roadtrip radio crooned.
I choke away a bout of tears
so nobody sees my fear of coming home

because I’ve taken time to know your heart;
sunken, drowned, in a coma of hope.
I know if he tries to stir you while I’m gone
there won’t be a place to come back to.

And awake, if you do choose to trust him again,
who would I be
to say anything to deter you
besides be careful?

You’ll utter a generic response, warmly meant
while overlooking the real nature of my words,
my true love surrendering, allowing you this chance
to chase after your possibly misguided heart.

Smile at the children
so they don’t realize they’re animals in cages
sleeping on the floor with a blanket of tin foil.

And crown they good with brotherhood.

We’re not allowed to touch the sobbing kids.
What they’re fleeing is worse than how we’re treating them.
And that’s the way it is. Period.

We shouldn’t be using kids as a deterrent,
mortar to build our wall, extortion
in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Where are the girls and young toddlers?

Steamroll the public with statistics and deny
pictures and sounds of wailing children.
That’s an orchestra we have in here.

God mend thine every flaw
Confirm thy soul in self-control
Thy liberty in law!

Build a 30-foot-high structure
from sea to shining sea to solve the problem.

God shed his grace on thee
Till nobler men keep once again
Thy whiter jubilee!

It’s good to have the favor of the king.

leaned against the bar
enough swagger to get by
he’s your man, your man

Like Caillabotte’s man on a bridge, alone but for his despair, I am pensive. Unlike him, invisible in the throng, to me humanity is hidden now, when I could use their unknowing company regardless of any need, or not, for me. I wish I could go home, any of them, which must surprise you, coming from an angel. Still, consider how I first came to be. I was cast out of a womb. These wings, once white, were rewards for losing a physical life while saving another. They blackened when I was cast down for arguing with Him. Now they’re failing because, well, I tried too late to be good again. Angel: That noun doesn’t fit comfortably with homesick, the adjective. But what else can I be, after being cast into nowhere from the Pit? Where is home now?