we are made of the parts our souls remember
from the lives we’ve lived before
figments of each others imaginations
the people outside of us are Sputnik Sweethearts
bound to the ovoid orbits they’re given
pull and push, pull and push
people never keep
just like fruit
I am back here again
hundreds of years in the vaults of my mind
tailored like my coffin;
ten years of writing, toiled
over all the things not done.
There is dust only left in the flask
of this body it curls up and weeps
alone to all the stones
which I carry up this hill. If
pushing rocks is my destiny
then let me gouge out the good eye
and be ‘phus in this form
as good as any shape to become.
Things, as they are, are their own becoming;
I am unbecoming again
on this dust cloud I worry upon
nothing takes a miracle pursuing
a title dream in this daymare
spectating this nightmare becoming dizzy daydream
again. I am spectated.
In observations, you see my fits
for who I really am; am not
some greek myth. I am not
pushing daisies or rocks up
my spirit will not allow it. I am
writing in an old notebook, thinking
I am special. It is labor coded
in love lose and nicotine
I am back at it, if by duty
if only by duty I am blinded
by dust all becoming this image now
I am lost to myself still
an echo. When I exhale
I will leave this tomb of it all
leave this tome to the all
to the all seeing nothing that is
II.
recuperating
missing
the myth of me
in the story of you
longing for the hero
journey of my mind
in the heart of yours;
III.
the minotaur of my blood vessels is hungry
IV.
I am hungry too;
for tools more like myself
the wrench in my lungs
pliers around my tooth
a crowbar is my femur
I’ve cut off all my fingers
to make space for unsharpened pencils
what I am is one big pencil
just yesterday I was petrichor
by the name of it by naming it
there is no blue in the sea
of the green that is me;
in the dirt, rough-set in patches,
gray-to-brown to ombre out
the pavement, mud splotches, impassable
buildup of the debris is the hard stone
set against the better thought rattles the heart;
that it lies eaten up in the shadow
of Everything to them places the colder
darkness in the bright summer mind.
What of the vines that used to choke out
the rotted wood & the new growth
that emerged from the plastic
empire? What of the theory of Idea
laid out in abundance at one geographic
point? What of the soul of an object,
left to develop on its own only after
the humanity has been slowly removed,
opening the space to allow something more
humane? What of the stone half-staircase,
path upward to the free-spirited meadow,
downward to the urban oasis? What of it,
you say; what of the paths diverged
to link back together at the right time?
What of the keystone point of their
connection? What of connection? What of hope?
What of the dying spirit that no longer requires
the universe that no longer requires it?
What of a few memories, scattered,
dandelion seeds mowed to the waste bin?
What of ends; what of these odds and ends
of brick tossed aside for the reckless pirates
who discover another man’s treasure?
What of theft? What of the hoards in the beach
kept deep and looted some thousand
years later in the name of archaeology?
Yes, what of it, of everything and one square yard
sand-shoveled to the ground? What of the life
of an Idea? What of the unbound soul of Inspiration
itself, now a ghost with nowhere to hold on?
What of hoping at least the satellites
wouldn’t be smart enough by now to realize the concept of an end?
i’m so tired
but i can’t sleep
because the television is too loud and
the remote is too far away from me
the television is too loud and
full of reminders of how small the world is now
how pain and suffering is broadcast
right into the comfort of your own house and you are now
left with the thoughts that you have that keep you awake at night
because every story that comes after is a constant reminder of how much you are all struggling to stay
afloat
but the television is too loud and
the remote is so far away from me
further than i can imagine
from here because there can’t be a world
where a parent carries all of their hopes and dreams
and love and despair and anguish and suffering and hurt and love
in two plastic shopping bags which used to be one entire person that was here
that was real
and it exists on the same planet where we all sit
and do nothing at all about it
there can’t be a world where i feel this helpless to stop it
there should be no world where you live in fear of dying
because of
who you love
how you worship
who you are
where you live
and i’m hoping that there is a perfect place
somewhere in a world, light years away, where the remote probably is by now
where the television isn’t so loud
the remote isn’t lost forever
and these anchors aren’t so stoic and emotionless
but since i know that i have no control over this
i’ll do what i do when i feel lost every night
i’ll write down these thoughts
turn off the television
and turn off the lights
In the maze of passing interests, tucked somewhere in between learning how to speak backwards and calculating doomsday, there is a boy staring at his palms. At the fault lines. He can trace this morning’s argument to the crack he stepped on four months ago. Hindsight’s perfect vision making a mockery of present decisions. They show up on the doorstep of his mind, fissure-spun, a Pandora’s box wrecked, something vaguely ominous amicably placed at his inconvenience. There is an art to misstepping, he’s sure of it. Write place, wrong time. Wrong words, right line. Or something like that. He’s cobbled causality into something resembling rational thought, the disorder interpreted like tea leaves. The refrain: if he could do it all again, he’d do it differently. This time, he’d do it right.
My therapist tells me that two things can be true at once
I got an ampersand tattoo on my arm so I wouldn’t forget
It applies to you, mainly
What in my life doesn’t
I can miss you and still not want you in my life
I can hope to see you and never want to lay my eyes on you again
I can be sad that we ended and glad that I’ve moved on
I can have contradicting beliefs
Humans can’t be just black and white
We have to be complicated
But god, do I wish that I could make up my mind about you
& debate begins tension builds the seeking to be right pursued in a world of never knowing I roll over debating my mind I reach out to touch to mine your words your thoughts experiences I do not ask I wait.
You come to visit your hug tight I love you contained in arms you wrap around & I witness your struggle & all that you contain & all that you hold back & your story pours out & I write poetry because poems will provoke questions as I become lost in a maze surrounding
