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Abandoned ChapelThe parish waits now,
the loneliness of corners
crawling outward on walls
chipped away by the wind;
cobwebs align them
like the membranes of memories,
the cut of a jewel in a broken window,
gathering in a mesh of strands
a new Mosaic)
My eyes seek out the sermon,
paint no distance
between headstone and cloud;
elegies topple each other
in their climb to heaven
(beneath nick and scratch)
as light needles the shade,
breathes new fire over candles,
measures the weight in these empty rows,
breaths that haven't ceased being prayer.
Shaping CloudsThe sky is always a fixture over oceans,
another cliched postcard;
this is a place where the only distance is upward,
and I lose myself in the memory of shapes
as if your foam fluked tide
stretched as high as it could
and decided to stay.
A horse's gallop
is slowed through the blue
before a piece of his snout breaks off
and drifts away;
as the sun sinks
into the depth and contrast--
heaven over the clothes line,
and corrugated metal,
I realize no one ever mentions clouds in a sunset;
only their absence in a clear sky,
where the light spreads thin into nothing,
and no one notices
lest it be over oceans.
Observing SilhouettesTheirs is still,
arms linked in the face of a sky--
overexposure and time
unlike the the herd
that comes together, and comes apart,
the brief romp of a pair of wings,
the crane's arch to the pond,
the strand on the down of a feather
that knows how to be alone again,
the leaf, the blade of grass.
To Earth, The Parts Of YouAt oceans I feel the sulfur of your hand
spinning shadows into shoals
your allotropic breath
in the sky
going every which way--
bones shifting in your axis,
I feel the indifference of your breath
shifting along tree tops,
the age of you
there are crowds to be heard--
protests and rallying cries.
I want to climb to the highest point of your horizon--
closed like a lid,
away from the beating heart of you
coaxing me to lie upon the ground
Unopened LettersPulled ribbons
fall around the ephemera
like disbanded sails.
I knock around with envelopes,
too close to discern
a shape in the ink
like scrawled twigs
drawn from the slow,
lost to the grip
And yet the kettle on the stove
because we need it to remain the same,
even if in novelty--
like the doddering, ghost
of an old hand,
gesturing for time to slow.
The Stubbornness Of Homethe canopy
parts from its roof,
to the sky
with no memory of blue,
the tired wave length
sinking into the brown and gray
that can no longer hold its red;
in the last heavy wind;
the distended metal
shoved upon the beach,
with the memory
of its place in the world.
Veil Tail GoldfishAs the vein
runs through the fine
you have the light by which you glide,
the current that moves beneath you;
fragments of lamp lapped up
in the shadows of a room
while my feet try to pick apart a pace
in the metronome of
day to day
whose time has all but buried the satellite
of where I need to go
between bits of brick and mortar
and so I leave the window open
the memory heavy in a lifting curtain
as this room sits like a sunken ship
in the waltz of light and turning earth.
I curl up in the womb of it,
leaving the sky as my glass,
feeling the heaviness of Heaven's eye.
IntegerI tried to think of colors,
or a place that would embody a poem
one day, in the event that I lose
the chance for words;
a tree seemed too simple,
but a worthy candidate
as the forest thinned its limbs
to the sun
like futile arms
in the sighs of future buildings.
And then it was too complex,
and green sufficed,
or maybe blue, or whatever color
broke out into the sky.
I tried to walk without a beat,
and summon what feeds
on every bit of youth it could get
from our bodies
like water to a desert-fiend;
tried to think
of what a minuend would be
if not the razor backed edge
of a number,
but the crumbling of cells
piece by piece to the elements
of time as it sorts infinities,
and I am nothing but the breath
that escapes me.
EveI remember when time was time,
when Eve fell into the sea, eyes burning--
her great arm unraveling from the night.
Her breath made its way into
the path of sun.
She became the long road, arriving;
for me the cradle of Winter,
a quilt of windows and hills.
It was a beginning.
She walked with me,
our pace measured in the length of buildings
as she sighed into the wood, textures,
and the joints of stairs.
I almost remember when the thick oak of doors
only ran beneath my fingers
long enough to explore.
This was a beginning too,
and I know that it was here that time began to bleed,
and Eve died young.
Today thoughts almost seem to
in the melted snow of windows,
falling away into Spring.
I watch the spaces emerge in the fence,
the transparency of glass.
Her vision now rests in the pool of sun upon my floor.
She is almost better suited without a form,
as shoveled roads and time wait for me to carry on,
the world cracking beneath an unforgiving sun,
nails rusting in
Path of lifeLife is a dangerous path
Full of twists and traps
A path we're forced to walk
Without turning back
We may regret the past
We may regret the mistakes
But we must learn from them
And keep moving on
We may predict the future
And even fear it
But we never know
What happens next
The only thing we have
Is the present, here and now
So let's live it
And forget about the rest
The mistakes of the past
The mysteries of the future
All part of life
This path we all walk
wordless they succumbAnd they fell -
just like that.
Just like the act of breathing;
soundless and inevitable.
Like an eager girl slipping
straps from her shoulders,
the soft crush of silk at her feet.
We Have No TimeAll we have
Is a sliver
Everything we will
Do in life
We all die before we know it
Its a fact of life
And I am already dying
A slow painful death
One year at a time
One month at a time
One week at a time
One day at a time
Then we flatline
On a metal sheet
Buried in the dirt
To think we were born yesterday
Only to die tomorrow
Winter's GirlI was winter's girl,
frozen under a thick layer of ice.
People tried to break it with their ice picks, but to no avail.
They eventually left me cold and in pieces in my frozen abyss.
You're thawing me out, slowly but surely.
"Summer girls aren't for me, "you say.
"Too full of sick strawberry sweetness."
That was just said to comfort me, but it oddly worked.
Maybe time with you will make me a summer girl,
no more need for thawing,skating with you above my ice.
WonderlandWhen I was little, I knew Wonderland.
Logic was faulty and rules were no more.
Up was down; down was up.
That was how it constantly was.
Fish swam in the air and drowned in water.
Worries were small and dreams were big.
One fell up until they reached the clouds,
Which were then used for soft beds and pillows.
Gender was an unnoticed trait.
Everyone was blind.
Everyone could see.
There were no expectations to uphold.
I was happy.
Then I woke up-or fell asleep-
Into a world with war and prejudice and plague.
I wondered then, and I do now…
Was Wonderland not the real world?
The Answer is Noneplease excuse the crushing
of this conversation
and i'll forgive the wheeze
as my mind's
pinch your windpipe
all but shut
watch my fading blur
as i step like god
and your heels drag
now you're the one
whose able is unned
dissed and nonned
your ghostlungs, my balloon
floating and bumping
and the whether
of pressure differentials
feels true, against
to the girl with the razors in her back pocket,stop. turn around. i understand you,
and i understand the sadness
entrenched in your bones. i understand
the late nights spent in anxious prayer
to the towels, to the creaky floorboard
just outside your parents' room, to the sink
that stains too easily. i understand
the catastrophic glances that people throw you
when you open your mouth and try
to belong. i understand the intense moments
spent in dressing rooms splicing together outfits
that will gracefully sweep past tally-marked wrists and ankles
and hopefully make sense in the dead of summer.
i understand the nights that you carve the emptiness
onto the razor and wonder if it wouldn't be better
to just die tonight instead. no one can be angry...
or disappointed...or judgmental...or sympathetic (because
sometimes forced empathy is the worst)...when you
no longer exist. it just stops. and anything
has to be better than this.
well, you're right about one thing. it does
get better. and not in that corny way
people tell you. you won't se
Blank CanvasesThere are canvases whose depths
cannot be observed in a lifetime.
His room has a glide he cannot see.
The clouds sauntering across the blue,
a slow and steady turn of the world
as the tint drains from his walls,
leaves arcs of shadows in its place,
rising and falling--
the world and its elusive brushes;
so tender the application,
the ebb of tides, and tidal waves,
the people he meets.
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