You can see its darkness
Look at Venus,
is that why?
Maybe something in the way
across the empty space,
as silently as diamonds in the
jaws of Earth at night.
Why suffer in silence,
falling sparsely down like something
from a dirty dream;
precipitation in my hair,
evaporation on the stone
before the cold kicks in, and then it's
it's snow, it's snow,
as many flakes of snow
as clouds can drop
before they're weary
of the cold,
and clouds are hardy creatures
in the months when we have snow.
in another stranger's land,
living off their fruits
and trying not to seem intrusive
when they sneak a slice
from the fridge;
saying all the politest words
they can remember,
speaking softly so
they can't be heard distinctly,
taking what they need.
and Buddha's face is hid behind the trees.
winds above the temple in the breeze.
and pointed to the sky; but when you turned,
was out of sight, behind the clouds it burned.
it's not as easy
as the Bible
with burning rags
and keep the cocktail
because they need it,
they're full of shit.
is in the dungeon,
in the room
beneath the stair;
behind the mirror,
light the candle
if you dare.
and lay a bomb
to blast them bare,
the lock and lift
the gauntlet, gleaming,
in the air.
of the gods,
you have to creep
the whole way there.
portraits of sound I hear you
painting at the summer's end -
pointilist notes of blue ascending
from a brush of your fingers
on a most receptive, musical neck,
the contours that you pick and peck,
staccato, silent as the singers
at the span before the bridges
drop, the autumn's brown and purple
lines a counterpoint, a frame
of reference for a portrait,
landscape, treasure map, a concert
of red and gold and violins.
molten possibly; if I had time
to check it out I could confirm it, but
there is no time, there is no chance, my eyes
are fixed inside their sockets, only staring
straight ahead. Their lids are likewise kept
from blinking by this ceaseless stimulation,
mind monopolized by color,
brain distracted by the calculations,
nose unheeding of the burning flesh
(if anything is truly burning now).
The only taste of touch I feel is dull,
no pain, no savor, only dull and warm
against my palm and through my fingers, and
the memory's distinction fading out
the more they twitch, the more the buttons click.
As hours fall between the minutes and
the gap between the present and the time
on the alarm is shrinking, I am sure
that I can stop at any time I choose;
but I do not, because it's Sunday night,
not Monday morning, and besides, I haven't
heard a fire alarm, so there's no proof
the plastic's melting: don't you think I'd notice?
I still remember thinking things
I'd be ashamed to fess up to now,
the words to songs I hate,
those songs I used to listen to
and swearing up and down
that you were wrong goddammit.
I mowed that summer
and the finishing touches
of a multimedia project for
sixth grade social studies;
looking the same things up in Google?
because they couldn't burn the sea,
and every strip of land, they swore,
would smolder for eternity.
or battleship that carried me;
for fire screams from cannon's bore
and water beckons to the free.
but salt and fear and memory,
some fish to catch and cans to store,
a motor and a rusted key.
to build a mansion in a tree,
but watched the people I adored
expire from the shallow sea.
of bombs reduce them to their knees,
and on the people's heads they poured
a toxic stew of misery.
until the day they burned the sea,
and all of planet Earth (and more)
was broiling with humanity.
I scan the flames, and I can see
one sailor's life is nothing for
a final act of liberty.
an arrow passes through you
embarrassing the angels,
(who never learned the science)
and confusing lovers for want
of a straighter shot.
How did you accomplish this,
and are you as frustrated
as the arrow looks?
talk about the guy
who spent his life in search of saints
and ended up a chintzy saint himself.
about his broken heart,
or did they all get lost among
the people-power, hippie-anthem stuff?
about the girl he had,
or had him, so he burned her flat?
You know he beat a few in real life
or words to that effect,
a child of nature, lost, and longing
for his mother, for a ticket out.
on every hippie's wall,
forgiven for his cruelties
because he was against a fruitless war?
and I love him for it,
like I love that famous song
about the girl he had, whose flat he burned,
because she wasn't his.
I don't believe he ever lit
that fire, but I know she felt the heat.
steeped in the salty ocean,
and hallucinate from all that garbage.
Not the small, safe visions
of a drug like LSD
but the ugly, mind-fucking terror dreams
that plague the minds of those who dare
perform incredibly stupid acts.
I want to drink the tea
blog it on my tumblr blog
along with all the illustrations
of the goblins in my eyes
before I die.
a murky place of refuge,
somewhere new to swim;
a hipster affectation
something that the neighbors
hadn't thought to flaunt.
- What are ways a fish could use a bicycle?