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.
MissionaryI’m ready to be used, you said;but you’ve no clue what I could doto you if you let me.It isn't a matter of control,a matter of fact, a sense of the matter;it's the thrill of losing them all.Will you declare the samewhen I gain the bend of your thoughts,or take your latest hours for myself?The turns you take yourselflead you down predictable roads;I choose to close my eyes.I want your hands, your mouth—not your eyes, or even your concern;just the weight of you over me.Let's draw the blinds and seewhat primal tongues our bodies choirin the cosmos of the dark.
BoredomMy life is a choreThere's no joyOr happinessOnly boredomAnd frustrationI'm just livingFor the sake of itWith no objectiveWith no purposeOnly killing timeUntil the day I die
(aftermathematics)with passing timeand spending dimesi've got(ten) precious,precocious all metallicand isolated behind alloysor bars; ally, lie,calculate the dreamscapesjust so.thought currencysells in idle transactions;idyllic complexities that dance,sparkling treasuresg(r)asping in claspedhands curling together,a stutter at the slightestmovement.i've got a diamond-like mindset,all wildfire kaleidoscopes;but you're offeringno more than penniesthat clatter in the b(l)anks.
Blind and lostI open my eyesBut I can't see a thingNot in all the fogThat clouds this worldA fog we can't clearIt doesn't go awayAnd so we wanderTrying to find our wayFinding only trapsAnd dead endsUntil we collapseAnd dieSomewhere in this mazeCalled life
sphinxamaniai.in this dawnlightyou will let himlinger,strung outand more muddledthan last night'sinvitation.the dry chokeof his slumbering throatwill be the anthemof your morning routine:wake first,test the depth of his sleep,softly gather all articlesand effects,step wraithlyover piles of clothingand passed-out bones,and if possible lock the doorbehind you.ii.let noonflood over youlike absolving showerswith the heattoo high.stare at the sunand burn out last night's imagecompletely,and never again rememberhis "discreet" voice.soon, love, the marksof his teethwill fadeand his namedissolvewith the daylight.iii.you are an islein the pale and ficklelight of the moon.every soultrying to kiss your shoresis surethat they will be the firstto survivethe trip.but love, their veinsare not preparedto rip.
Walking with a ToddlerSlow he may be, plodding gentle histiny legs. Each stick is a newexploration three steps toanother. “come on” you shout as he trots overgravel laughing delighted at the crunch-crunchbeneath his feetand thereand back again. A dog bounds by, so much energy thatit sparks fear in the little trekker ashe clings to your leg, begging to be lifted.Arms wrapped around his world,he points at the sky, tells you its blue.
i broke the sky to make youand every time i dust your hipswith my aspirations,i hear her weepinstead.
Warm Hands, Cold HeartSleep with me.Our bodies woven like scarves too warm for autumn breezes.Caught up in a winter romance.I'd have let your hands slip beneath my shirt just to feel the warmth of my skin against your icy callouses.Of course we'd only lie there in each other's company, letting our hands intertwine, knitting scarves more suitable for autumn days.Peeling dried skin from our frail frames overtly aware that we'd been peeling away the walls between us.And I'd have let you knock them down.The walls, the scarves, the autumn, the winter days in your arms. Gone.Heaving and cursing you'd take your pickaxe words and drive a hole straight through the icy heart of me andI would shatter.Cradling your words like I'm handling a baby crying, I'm dying, under the pressure of the water building up.Flooding.Enigmas drowning.Enlightenment just too easy to catch on your line, throw me alifeline because I can't swim.I'm caught up in yourNets.Give me your hand and we'llSink together into our wove
the rise and fall of the fermionic empirei.you roll your limbsin odd circles,frontways and backbefore timecould.tracing the spiritof cosmic gestureswith the careof saintsas your figuressum tonil.known to themaps of thescoped, butnot shownto count.ii.you've attunedyour movementsto this earthbound opus.taming this sphere,its siltand swayclearly beloved.no one meantfor your plansto set sighton this crown.iii.you turn, limber aswillows kept dearby circlet breeze,and claim.taking these pearlsfrom the swingof fluxand setting themin gold dustdrowned fabrics.only oncehave your handslet their potioncloud.iv.your rule,in osprey swoopand brokebeak mons,stirs gamma-pierced wingsto grasp heirsby the throat.tracking the spearsas they slitpurple robesand spill.open upyour potentcourt.
a year elsewhere (wont to)when you dragyour anklesinked across the pageand sign, desperatefor contactremember starsetsare not fixedand darling expanses shiftquite subtle in temporalwaltzes. every objectobserved started elsewhereand hardlysettles now. swearinga vow on the inertiaicequatesfranklyto madness.
Heaps of horsesI wish I was less desperateto be different;I wish it was more differentto be desperate.
Please sign up
or login to post a critique.