Thursday, March 31, 2011
EITHER ORION'S DOING CARTWHEELS OR LIFE IS PASSING BY
if you look up often enough, perhaps
you'll get the hint. we were always made
to be baffled by stars.
this monochromatic jackson pollack
splattered across the sky inspires either something real
or confusion by the chaos. yet, either orion's doing
cartwheels or our lives are passing by. because one day
he's fully upright, bow and arrow ready to take down the moon, the next
he's fully prostrate, an old, brittle man, unable to move.
it's simply a small glimpse of who we are,
where we came from. it's innate and overwhelming, and
being trapped in the terrestrial never helped the cause.
never truly inspired anyone to accomplish anything.
"in the beginning there was nothing." but most parts
of us don't buy that, not for a single second. never
a solitary moment do we agree while our heads nod in forced approval.
have you ever treated an idea as a seed, a tiny delicate thing
struggling to root almost anywhere for life? watched it grow?
more than several steps are taken back at this point. this promise
we made to ourselves but have since forgotten.
and without a doubt,
we are a species with amnesia. still it's not our fault.
eden was only paradise because we didn't know any better.
take eve and adam to six flags one day
and they'll say, "fuck the fruit. can we ride that again?".
the real trick is that it was
never their decision to make. never ours either
for that matter.
it's the conscience mind
never believing in beauty. refusing to
acknowledge that paradise could ever exists.
until getting over this false notion, this unbelievable inaccurate thing,
that we've never once earned it, that deserving it requires more than
being alive.
if you look up often enough, perhaps
you'll get the hint. we were always made
to be baffled by stars.
this monochromatic jackson pollack
splattered across the sky inspires either something real
or confusion by the chaos. yet, either orion's doing
cartwheels or our lives are passing by. because one day
he's fully upright, bow and arrow ready to take down the moon, the next
he's fully prostrate, an old, brittle man, unable to move.
it's simply a small glimpse of who we are,
where we came from. it's innate and overwhelming, and
being trapped in the terrestrial never helped the cause.
never truly inspired anyone to accomplish anything.
"in the beginning there was nothing." but most parts
of us don't buy that, not for a single second. never
a solitary moment do we agree while our heads nod in forced approval.
have you ever treated an idea as a seed, a tiny delicate thing
struggling to root almost anywhere for life? watched it grow?
more than several steps are taken back at this point. this promise
we made to ourselves but have since forgotten.
and without a doubt,
we are a species with amnesia. still it's not our fault.
eden was only paradise because we didn't know any better.
take eve and adam to six flags one day
and they'll say, "fuck the fruit. can we ride that again?".
the real trick is that it was
never their decision to make. never ours either
for that matter.
it's the conscience mind
never believing in beauty. refusing to
acknowledge that paradise could ever exists.
until getting over this false notion, this unbelievable inaccurate thing,
that we've never once earned it, that deserving it requires more than
being alive.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
THAT'S WHY THEY CALL IT BAGGAGE
once again,
spring won't make up her mind, or perhaps
it's winter's inside joke. just enough warmth
to get used to before the bitter cold crawls back in.
march is as fickle as it gets, a child
given permission to pick a single toy
alongside an everest of shelves. there's not enough
oxygen in world to scale those hills.
the heart often follows suit, then
gives in this far north; one day excited
about even the possible love interest
in the cashier at the co-op
the next, her mention of the kabbalah
has you shopping hanafords for weeks.
but we forget
how the flowers come up once again. everything
seems ephemeral, fleeting. then don't mind so much
waking up again, as
we're reminded to both dance in the sunshine, and
collect snowflakes on the tongue.
the weight of all the things i haven't done keeps
me both chained down and in fantastic shape.
dragging mistakes behind me around the baggage claim
at the airport of missed opportunity. personally, my
luggage never closed correctly.
the zippers get caught on the choices i never made.
once again,
spring won't make up her mind, or perhaps
it's winter's inside joke. just enough warmth
to get used to before the bitter cold crawls back in.
march is as fickle as it gets, a child
given permission to pick a single toy
alongside an everest of shelves. there's not enough
oxygen in world to scale those hills.
the heart often follows suit, then
gives in this far north; one day excited
about even the possible love interest
in the cashier at the co-op
the next, her mention of the kabbalah
has you shopping hanafords for weeks.
but we forget
how the flowers come up once again. everything
seems ephemeral, fleeting. then don't mind so much
waking up again, as
we're reminded to both dance in the sunshine, and
collect snowflakes on the tongue.
the weight of all the things i haven't done keeps
me both chained down and in fantastic shape.
dragging mistakes behind me around the baggage claim
at the airport of missed opportunity. personally, my
luggage never closed correctly.
the zippers get caught on the choices i never made.
Friday, March 25, 2011
THERE WAS A NIGHT...
dark and forgettable,
that's how it was
when i slept on your front porch
after the fact, far after the world ended.
then walked
away, still drunk
before you rose:
before you woke.
to this day, never noticed.
that was the night
that hindsight caught up with me.
an idea of you being perfect,
as if there were such a thing.
and how out of love i'd fallen with myself thinking in such ways; i was
further gone than i imagined.
and of course, no one told me, not a friend in sight. not just even one
pointing me in one direction or another
and i wondered
how i got to that point.
i'm smart, and charming, and hidden well, and so on...
and so
the fact that you lived on the same street as me
didn't make up for the
perfect; fucking cliche metaphor
of the pedestal
i'd conjured up in my mind.
(a place to place you.)
those things didn't happen, nor exist. why would they? why
would the universe ever tap you on the shoulder, whisper in your ear; and
then be wrong.
except perhaps he wasn't, and maybe never could be.
yet still i divide...
directly in two: part one
hopes i get a piece of me in the deal,
standing if front of the mail box
waiting for the letter,
"save the date",
the other part existing somewhere else,
another beast all together
a hair extracting skeptical, knees bleeding across the floor, heart: well...
giving all it's got,
not for even one second, "holding it's peace".
not one of which,
are of,
nor ever will be
any of these far worse images conjured up:
an elephant scared of a mouse.
shingles falling on a roofers head,
the same shingles licked slowly across one's tongue,
a different (and of course; somehow better) man fucking you.
the smell of pavement
as it gradually turns a hard, your nose first
experiences, the scent then
up in disgust, and soon high
from the fumes. high enough to entreat the texture
of the shark as the remora
bites down.
a grain of sand
might as well be the pyramids of giza
when you want something bad enough.
dark and forgettable,
that's how it was
when i slept on your front porch
after the fact, far after the world ended.
then walked
away, still drunk
before you rose:
before you woke.
to this day, never noticed.
that was the night
that hindsight caught up with me.
an idea of you being perfect,
as if there were such a thing.
and how out of love i'd fallen with myself thinking in such ways; i was
further gone than i imagined.
and of course, no one told me, not a friend in sight. not just even one
pointing me in one direction or another
and i wondered
how i got to that point.
i'm smart, and charming, and hidden well, and so on...
and so
the fact that you lived on the same street as me
didn't make up for the
perfect; fucking cliche metaphor
of the pedestal
i'd conjured up in my mind.
(a place to place you.)
those things didn't happen, nor exist. why would they? why
would the universe ever tap you on the shoulder, whisper in your ear; and
then be wrong.
except perhaps he wasn't, and maybe never could be.
yet still i divide...
directly in two: part one
hopes i get a piece of me in the deal,
standing if front of the mail box
waiting for the letter,
"save the date",
the other part existing somewhere else,
another beast all together
a hair extracting skeptical, knees bleeding across the floor, heart: well...
giving all it's got,
not for even one second, "holding it's peace".
not one of which,
are of,
nor ever will be
any of these far worse images conjured up:
an elephant scared of a mouse.
shingles falling on a roofers head,
the same shingles licked slowly across one's tongue,
a different (and of course; somehow better) man fucking you.
the smell of pavement
as it gradually turns a hard, your nose first
experiences, the scent then
up in disgust, and soon high
from the fumes. high enough to entreat the texture
of the shark as the remora
bites down.
a grain of sand
might as well be the pyramids of giza
when you want something bad enough.
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