Meditations on Letting Go - 09/09/13

I:
But if you ask the same of me,
I'd say,
"Never have been,
never will be,
but learning to live
with the consequences
and find stability."
So, by pale yellow light
reflected off bronze
that I can't believe
doesn't move when I look away,
I guess I meditate
with aid of orange juice
God never returned
slipping through my fingers
and trapped lyrics
dripping from my lips.
Sprinkler systems sputter
into white noise
intermittently broken by
passing feet and chatter
and crickets and humming
and an occasional direct address,
drawing my thoughts away
from the cobweb down
Jesus' bronze back
and to an even more
unfamiliar face.
Because:
"No, it's fine,"
and
"Sure, I've got time,"
but
"Just let me check up
on one thing,"
to confirm my bias
and push my mind
to draw reaching palms
from grooves in
rusticated stone.

Still, I am sure
that if I glance away
Jesus will reach to me
and explain,
"God left to get some orange juice,
but that was years ago.
It's time to grow up
and buy your own,"
as if it's a lesson
that I don't know.


II:
I wonder if anyone goes home
to write a poem
about meeting a
strange girl
meditating
on a statue
way too late
at night.


III:
Wine glass full of
soon forgotten
memories and
streetlights raining
parametric down
conversion from
birefringent crystals
in your mind,
fast and slow
axes indistinguishable.

Wish Granted - 01/30/13

Some  sensual, level woman,
leaning calmly against an aqua bus stop sign,
brilliant aubern hair contrasting,
taking a long, thoughtful look
at the twists and turns of the road,
looked at me
as I paused
and looked at her

and we both said,
"Hello."

Physics Shorts - 09/12/12

I.
Waves, waves everywhere
Oscillations in my hair
Physics is made up of oscillations
Described in mathematical incantations

II.
Frictionless surfaces are so much fun
Vacuums are where the best physics is done
Think it's impractical and can't hack it?
Then get out of Theoretical and into Mechanics!

Letters From A Very Bad Week - 12/10/11

I.
Open fire and flames.
Open fire and flames and fumes.
Open fire and flames
And forgotten fame
And fever.


II.
Dear Mr. Devil,
We regrettably inform you that we will be unable to make this evenings ball due to the inconvenience of being alive.  We have heard many great things about your parties and were looking so forward to this one.  Please know that we mean no offence and hope to join you next time.
Sincerely,
The Young and Tragic


III.
If I could be anything
I’d like to be a candle.
A simple, quickly-over life,
Nothing much to handle.
Set alight one day,
Left to brightly burn.
A beautiful travesty,
A rose’s bloodied thorn.
The candle killed by kindness,
Just trying to spread light.
The happiness is seen
But the bringer out of sight.
And as the day passes,
The wax evaporates,
Until there is nothing left,
Gone without a trace.
So bring me structured poetry
And overly-lyrical verse,
For I have images of blood
And stars and a polished hearse,
Because I am not a candle
Who will slowly die,
But a bit of dynamite,
Waiting to ignite.


IV.
Dear God,
I noticed the rain.  It rains often here and it’s hard to not notice, but what I noticed was that it wasn’t raining.  And it hasn’t rained in some time.  I know your subjects think the rain is you crying, so I can only imagine that a lack of rain is depression.  I’ve been having trouble crying lately too.  Trouble washing away all the darkness.  It gets bottled up, becomes acidic, and starts to chew away at my soul.  Which is okay for me, because I’m mortal.  But I don’t want to live in a world with a God whose soul has disintegrated.  So come down to visit, and we’ll drink orange juice and cry until the oceans flood.
It’ll be fun.
My best,
The Atheist


V.
You pretty little whore.
You filthy little doll.
Your dress is much too short,
Your ego much too tall.
I think it’s time to take a hit,
I think it’s time to fall.

You know you’re not immortal,
You know you’re gonna die,
So where’d you find the insanity
To look fate in the eye?
So where’d you find the courage
To laugh instead of cry?


VI.
Dear Ms. Dickinson,
You are bad luck.
Sorry,
The Heartbroken


VII.
The lighter met a candle.
Tall and thin and pale,
A girl of only seventeen
Who’d skipped too many meals.
The lighter didn’t know her secrets,
He didn’t know her pain,
He thought that they could be friends,
No reason to refrain.
I don’t know what he saw in her,
The ugly stick of wax,
With a wick wound so tight
She never could relax,
With poorly crafted body
That had cracked too many times,
With  a soul of blood and lust
That thought in verse and rhyme.
And when he found those verses,
Soaked in carnage and tears,
The silly little lighter
Found something to fear.
The girl was a cheater,
Dynamite in disguise,
Who smiled far too brightly
For one who hides such lies.

VIII.
Dear Scissors,
I’m sorry about last night.  It was wrong.  But I was lonely, and sad, and afraid to cry and God wasn’t around to make a joke.  And the Devil wasn’t around to play the right music.  And Blood would not shut up.  It was wrong.  But Poetry had failed me.  But cats make me cry.  But it wasn’t raining and I ran to you for comfort and found it.  It was wrong.  And it really mustn’t happen again.
But I can’t stop thinking about your embrace.  You can be the arms I’m longing for, the kisses I’m missing, the best friend who understands.  You accept me.  Treat my the same when I’m making art or breaking skin.  You don’t look at me like I’ve sinned when all I’ve done is freed the needs I have.
It was wrong and it really mustn’t happen again.  But don’t worry, because I’ve always been one for breaking the rules.
I love you,
Misery and Madness


IX.
It’s a little scary, at first.
That first moment in the water.
Time freezes and you think
You’re drowning.
And you really are drowning.
Forever and all eternity.

But eternity ends
A second later
And the words come
And it’s all over.
Forever and all eternity
It is over.

But eternity ends
A second later.

X.
Heart: Are we alright?
Mind: Are we alive?
Body: Where are we?
Soul: Doesn’t matter.
Heart: Everything matters!
Mind: Everything has energy.
Body: I think we should move . . .
Soul: What.  Ever.
Heart: The entire universe is filled with love and magic!  And you think it doesn’t matter?  Have you never seen a star?  Don’t you remember beyond the universe?
Mind: The entire universe is filled with physics and magic!  And you think it doesn’t matter?  Have you never seen a star?  Don’t you remember beyond the universe?
Body: I’m hungry.
Soul: I’m leaving now.

I Wish I Was a Whore - 02/23/11

Some skinny little skank,
leaning callously against a blue bus stop sign,
her fake red hair contrasting,
taking a long, brutal drag
off a bummed cigarette;
looked at me as I passed and said,
"You're wrong, girl."

I stopped, in my orange tennis shoes,
my fading jeans,
my tangled hair lazily assembled because what matter was
what was underneath it.
I stopped because she said I was wrong
and I was going to be a physics major,
and I was in the
amazing, stupendous, rigorous, monumental,
over-hyped IB,
and I was good at tests.

I stared at her seductive clothes,
clinging perfectly to her curved body,
like she was a store mannequin come to life,
like she was made to look good.
She used two painted nails
to throw the cigarette to the curb
and black, shiny heals
to stomp out the flame.
She exhaled smoke and perfume and said,
as she breathed,
"You're wrong, girl."

Buses come to that stop
with a irregularity
that makes my mechanical heart twitch
like it's organic.
But she stood there,
leaning,
breathing,
inky eyes cast down the street
with a carelessness
that must be what makes sex sound so good.

"You're wrong, girl,
because you know, but you don't understand.
You don't wait:
you jump in on the lab before you know how to do it.
You don't stop:
if it's written, it's written, and you're turning it in.
But you're wrong,
because you are good at taking tests,
but you've never been tested.
Because you're smart,
but you've never smarted.
Because you actually have,
and you won't admit it,
Because you're not a physics major,
you're a poet in denial."

Drifting - 07/29/10

12:
By morning -
Not the sun-and-awake morning,
But the past-midnight morning -
I crawl under the waves
Of blankets
And then out.
Turn down the tv,
So I can sleep.
I crawl under the waves
Of blankets
And then out.
Shut down the computer,
The blinking LED heartbeat
Keeping me up.
I crawl under the waves
Of blankets
And then out.

Too hot.
Too sticky.
Open a window?

Sirens,
Horn honks,
Car speakers thumping
Pumping
Bumping
In the not-so-dead of night.


1:
Blink, blink.
Toss, turn,
Sit up,
Shake my head as if
It will help
Clear all the thoughts out,
Dump them out
And onto the messy floor.
Slamming door across the hall,
Someone’s up for a snack.

2:
Back, side, stomach, other side.
Check the clock,
Another hour passed,
Insomnia?
I hope not.

3:
Burning
Turning
Churning
Nearly 16 years
Of never learning
How to fall asleep?

That’s just not right.

Breathe.
Slowly.
Steadily.
Don’t think.

But in order not to think,
One must think
About not thinking,

Also just not right.


4:
Silence.
This is the silent part of night.
But it isn’t night.
And the clock’s bright lights
Say another hour’s passed
With no shut eye.

5:
Could be cleaning,
Could be reading,
Could be doing anything except,
Apparently,
Sleeping.
Skydiving?
Sure.
Learning to drive?
Why not.
Resting, relaxing, reviving?

No.

6:
Screw you,
Mr. Sunshine,
So divine,
Just not right now.

Drift off finally,
Only to be awaken,
In two hours.

The Crow and the Cherry Blossom - 06/24/10

1

Scavenge, small black bird
Pink lips, green leaves, must be spring
Dark and bright clash, rough


2

Pink pedals drift
Ever so gently
Through the cool air
From the twisting
Tree of pink and green
It must be spring.

A large, black crow
Picks his way
Through lichen.
He is hungry,
Like the wind
That tears up this place
Searching, searching, searching
But never finding
What it seeks
Though it rips
Around ever corner
In cold pursuit.


3

Doesn’t have to mean
A thing
Can just be
What is
A representation
No metaphor,
Not this time