Posts for June 16, 2020 (page 4)

be forced to flee
so abruptly again.
I have found
a loving home
within myself
&
I have no reason
to run.

We sleep like children,
Becoming unrenowned.
The floor sticks up,
Like jagged mountain peaks.
We slumber in a valley;
Still the change is subtle.
We become visitors to our own reality;
How could vivid experiences be so cold?
And warm to the lost soul;
Yet we awake and forget.
Should innocence be so prized;
When not restricted to the unrealistic?
I am an explorer when I awake;
And others rest like children.
My eyes are open, but I am dreaming;
I fear that my friends will converge into a funeral party.
Should I escape so completely;
While still fully waking.
To be reclusive, to the strangest scrutiny so unrefined.
The poets fingers work like a weavers;
Bringing together the world and dreams.
So one does not have to fear the convergence of friends.
But in the haste, the poet can neglect that they are unlike all others.
And the funeral is in the brain;
And the body is still sleeping.
The greatest pain, in creating worlds;
Is knowing that it’s merely an escape into the brain.
Where you’ve always been;
Sleeping like children.

I met my neighbor
last night for the first time, late.
He was drunk and chatty.

He excused himself
to spit tobacco.

He said he was scared
of our late neighbor who passed
alone from cancer,

Joe who always joked
about tomatoes,

that he would steal some
from my garden if I would
stop growing weird ones. 

Joe wanted just one
tomato a year,

wanted to make one
summer BLT. Summer
wanted to make one

tomato a year.
Joe wanted just one.

Stop growing weird ones
from my garden. If I would,
he would steal that, some.

About tomatoes,
Joe, who always joked

alone, from cancer
passed, who, of our late neighbor,
he said he was scared.

To spit tobacco,
he excused himself. 

He was drunk and chatty. 
Last night for the first time, late,
I met my neighbor.

I

Just turned (twenty) nine. 

You can write rhymes

I wish lin manuel miranda would write mine.

wrapped around the wrought iron pole
like Eden’s serpent
trumpets abound with color

with filament & anther
& stigma
as her spotted
flushed petals
unfurl & curl out
& down
thickly
a backdrop
of stars
vibrating
in the swelter
of early summer.

This is what the is is. That is what
the is is not. Thought not-is are those.
And none, the not-to is, that’s never.
The never’s that, it’s more than less than this, 
laid up, paid up, sweating blots.
                                   
                                            But is the never
really what it is, not the this or that
but other’s none, a knot of nots? What one wills  
will be another’s those. Inverse of what
is never is, only neither that nor this.

In this photo
I see 
How I’m frozen in your memory

Smiling, skinny
Alert, poised

Through tears 
I choose
To remember you this way too

                                      but hate the unknown.
                                                                                     How miserable is that?

I love adventures where 
I know where
I’m going (McConnel Springs)
and how (walking along a lovely shaded trail),

                                      but hate the thought of 
                                      alighting onto UK’s campus to
                                      face a major I’m uncertain
                                      is the one for me. 

Last night, I dreamed I was riding