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SailorI set out to test the watersand push my limits,but the depths were hungry,and the limits fluid,far too close to shore.All the complexities,the terror and the pain,flooded the brain,drowning the factthat happiness can only risefrom deep within.It is your own damn jobto learn how to swim.
The simple endSo it seems thatas the years go bylike autumn leavesin snaking rivers,the sense of distanceis swallowed by the sea.So it seems thatthere are no perfect circles,only jagged linesfolding on themselves.So it seems thata human bodyis simply matterlessfrom violent beginningto the simple sweetnessof the end.
SupermassiveReality never bendsto human expectation,it simply does its thingand becomes the consequences.At times it blossoms perfeclyin the gardens of our creation,but when it dies and rots away,we may have been the poison.No result is guaranteed,even when thoroughly tested,but life is all but barrenwithout the seed of risk.And in the end,strange beauty growsfrom feeling thingsbig enough to break you.
SuprasolarWe call it the Local Group,this, our neighborhood of galaxies,in which only a single staramong billionsis even remotely reachable.And we tell ourselvesto dream big.That hard workwill get us there.But on the cosmic scaleour collective capacityis nothing.For every star in the Milky Way,all four hundred billion or more,there is a galaxy.Even the Local Groupis nothing.Yet since dreams are orbitalwe hold our breath to reach them.And when we perish in the vacuumthe stars still burneverything that matters.
Forest fireWe were snaking up the I-84through Deadman Passin the Blue Mountainsof northeastern Oregon,where stories write themselves.The trees are evergreen, you said,defiant spruce and pine and firprotruding from dirt and rocks,exclamation pointsfollowing the death of everything else.I recall a membrane of cloudsat the apex, a reminder of bordersthat should never have been crossed,as overanalyzed by a tired mind.It may or may not have been there.We penetrated the veil,the first Chevyto sputter onto the Moon,monochrome and lifeless,under a radiant crystal sky.The fire had ravagedthe land to the boneleaving us trappedin the rib cage of the world.Something else descendedinto the desert below,but it was no longer us.
AwokenFor years I slept with open eyesand fibrous dreams, cut into shapesso real to the touch.It took a shock to wake me upand shed my baby skin.The cold is raw now,honest and lethalto a naked body,freezing wordssolid in the throat.Light once imaginedshines no more.Love once whisperednow rings hollowamong the echoesof the dusk.
Why the ostrich bleedsI have oversharedenough.
StarpulseTen foldsof singularityaround and aroundthat lucid pain& sing acrossthe great dividelike a pulsar,a throbbing star.Let them hear youlong after you fallthrough your heart-holeinto the never/ever& keep them wonderingwhy.
Visitor's guideIn small-town Americathat biker dude at the local Circle Kwill greet you every time,by name, even, after a while,and he will ask you if you're OK.This is not an actual question,but that is all right.In small-town Americayou should not ride your bikewhile wearing a shoulder bag,hanging like a koala bear.A school bus will eventually pass by,the kids will laugh their asses off,nice Mormon bros will call you "nice" and "bro",and a '74 Chevy will nudge you into a ditch,endangered, like a koala bear.In small-town Americayou should not just turn left for the hell of itif you don't want to see a giant old manstraddling a John Deere, wearing nothingbut nearly swallowed shorts,massive gold-rimmed Aviatorsand a double-barreled shotgun.You should never ever wonder,where he keeps his extra shells.Small-town America.I was a stranger,but you spoke to me,and I wish I had knownhow to actually answer.
periphrasiswhen he asked me how i wanted him to build the house,i answered him truthfully.i said i wanted the pillars to be madeof pages from every book ever written,curled in on themselves untilthey could hold a roman arch.pour words, strong and weak, intothe earth instead of cement-let it be flexible to adaptto pressure.build the walls from the ground upthrough prose supporting the brickslayered by memories forgedalong the path we tookto arrive at eden.tilt poems into pyramids aboveour heads, ceilings just high enoughto be within earshot of everylaugh we'll ever make.empty emotions into a templateof a window and slide it intoplace without a way to get itback out.after i was done, we stood on thatvacant lot, ambiguous thoughtsflitting across his face and downinto my fingertips.he told me i was crazy.he told me i was beautiful.he told me he would build it.
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A PenisDo not assume (if I hold the door for you),that I am making a statementabout your inabilitiesto open the door for yourself.If you hold it for me,I'll say 'thankyou'.Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),that I am underestimatingyour earning capacityas a woman.If you invite me out for a meal,you're paying.Do not assume (if I defend your rights),that I am belittlingthe attempts that you have madeto defend your rights yourself.If you defend my rights,I'll consider you human.
Brown Eyes Compliments, and AnalogiesBecause I'm sick of people saying there aren't any.Your brown eyes are like the deep intoxication of campaign wine, bubbling with hazing richness and expensive taste.Your brown eyes are like the color of mahogany wood- comforting and home-steady toughness that lets me know you will be the beams of supporting me.Your eyes remind me of Dove chocolate, smooth, creamy, delectable, and melting.The color of brown eyes remind me of mountain terrain and nature, something subtle, but beautiful in every form and season.Brown eyes make me think of Devil's cake, taunting and tempting, curtained by black lashes, the symbol of rich seduction.When brown eyes delve in love, they become the color of a leather book, promising a story of loyalty, long-life, and devotion.Your brown eyes remind me of mysterious secrets, dark to cover the pain of ignorance, opaque to cover to want of another.Brown eyes are like the stable ground, steadier and prepared to embrace you when you fall, into a nurturing a
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one. When she cries herself to sleep six out of seven nights a week you must say nothing. You must simply take her in your arms and kiss her gaunt, pale cheeks and wait for her to slumber at the sound of your heart.two. On the days where she wishes she were part of the stars, tell her no. Tell her that there are too many lights in the sky and that just one would be forgotten the moment you looked away from it. Tell her that she is perfect the way she is: completely human.three. Don't let her think about the scars that no one but her can see. If she says "I think I'm broken" smile like you know a secret and say, "No, you're mending." But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
GrowingThe friends I had,the memories we shared,the lessons we learned,the persons who cared.Words gone unsaid,the lives drifting apart,my school life ending,my true life given start.Regret growing inside,of the words left unspoken,the lives I wished to touch,my heart torn and broken.Those friends so far away,distant and grown mature,my memories beginning to fade,the life of my childhood a blur.A familiar smile,comes in to view,my eyes begin to open,thank God, it's you.
The Farmers SonWe sat sipping grappa as the storm clouds rolled in from the ridgeslike the smoke from some great unseen inferno,the wood walls and shingles of the house complained to usin low groans,of the wind coming up hard, through the valley,and there was flickering light from a candle,and she told me how light from a prism dissects into different colours that correspondin some way to our bodies and that all of life was a rhythmand I believed that part,and I believed there were stars beyond the sight of man on any grey dayand that they might hold some greater secret than prisms or rhythmsor any question a farmers son could ever mutter, and the wind slowed to a stillnessand the rain moved in and our voices gave wayto what my Father would call The Lords Music,the pitter-patter of wateron the dry and flaking earth.
Take Care Of YourselfDon't expect from others to take care of youif you don'tTake Care Of Yourself.
i would do anything to get you to love yourselfi know your type, i’ve seen them around herebefore, browsing through my poems likeyou’re flipping through vinyl records, trying to findthat one disc you were listening to the first timehe leaned over and kissed you.the only way you’ll ever be able to love yourselfis if he leans over and kisses you again, is if someonetells you about the seven wonders of your soul, ifsomeone sits down and writes a list of all your beautifulfault lines that you’ve never been able to forgive.you want to love yourself and you want to be loved,but i know it’s hard to believe that you’re holy,when your hands still shake when they touch food andyour breath always quickens when you driveover bridges and no one can look you in the eyewhen you ask them if you’re beautiful.look, you’re stardust, you’re snowflakes, you’rethe sky’s gift to us, you’re comets on a cloudy nightwhen no one looks up to appreciate how beautifullyyo
Whispering to LuciferWhispering to Lucifer:Humans are such wonderous creatureseven when granted the gift of knowledgeThey fall prey to their own insecuritiesslaves to their own fears and paranoiaSuch is the father's gift of free will...Yes my lord, I understandbut do you not feel disappointment?The great bringer of light has condemned himself to an eternity of darknesssimply so his father's children may roam freeWithout adversity, there can be no acension...Ah, such a philosophical statement from youI am well aware that humans must experience both extremesWithout tasting joy it would be impossible to understand sorrowYet I fear that my brothers have forgotten that, in a single minded pursuit of-Misery...Aye, clever you are to see thatfor these brothers of mine find comfort in the wondrous art of destructionself-abuse is taken as 'fun', addiction is a personal rightGreed is good and gluttony is gold, sloth is scoffed atand wrath is protected by the comforting
AsylumRing sparkround the greycorridors -shock start;are the patientsstill in cells?