How was it that your skin and my skin got wrapped up in these melodies. Vibrations. Incantations and memories. I can feel you now, closer. Can you feel me too? We look to the sky as if it holds our meaning. You are like a ladybug living in the creases of a door jamb, who may not ever know the full breadth of the sky. Still we wonder why. With your look and my hook we fall back into each others skin, drifting, to our own rhythms. Still, the way forward is back and we’re always trapped, trapped, trapt. Still. Your eyes and my lies are like oceans of sky and we are creators of clouds and rain and mountains of waves. Leave. Don’t leave me. Bleed. Don’t need me. I do not get lonely, I am lonliness. I hold you in my caress and it’s always me me me. Leave, but don’t leave me.
Casting thoughts of the future like searchlights
this is worship.
The halo of attention sits atop storms of desolate mindscapes
like little bloated O’s floated in bath scum.
Frosted CRISPR Cas13’s deployed
in your morning cereal. Dad says to eat up.
Viruses create havoc— an attempt to take control of the host.
Then ooze blob-like out of the light of attention before turning
into dark smokey shadow to regain the high ground.
With this my daily bread i shall take to infirm the wretched—
part of a complete breakfast!
halos shoot arrows with razor blade precision
germ warfare has been declared. But it’s Dad’s war, and didn’t
he also say not to fight in other people’s wars?
NOW WITH SPECIAL CHOCOLATEY CASING!
Snip the disease of our humanity
until we are no longer human.
Now we started a war
that we can’t win.
When I woke up this morning immediately words repeating.
sat up and looked over at my two girls sleeping in bed with me.
my words are like food to fill the soul, the heart.
Falling and flailing, it seems wildly, but, in fact its what we’re programmed to do when we’re falling. I can feel the jet streams taking me, not unlike a leaf. I was in the clouds, but now I’m falling and the mantra in my head: trust the ground. This happens every time I’m falling like this. And just when it feels like I’ll be falling forever the ground reaches out and takes me from the air. Like getting smacked in the back of the head. I am absorbed into her, I am her, and then filtered through her. This is when the ground becomes the clouds and I’m dangling with my head in my new set of clouds, waiting to fall again.
there’s always love available. our job is to find it. when we are stuck looking for where its not we won’t find it. only when we commit ourselves to finding the love that’s available, even in impossible situations, will we be able to find it.
Some trees are already bare, and the leaves that remain, may well remain until next year. When a breeze ripples the giant sequoias, they whisper to each other the lost ancient name of loss and pain
—My love, are you awake?
and the dog down the street sounds the trumpet, and the oboe in the moon soaked starless sky whirs from far to near to far
Poetry is a celebration of life.
Living poetry is celebrating the suffering.
We’re living in a world of circles trying to make squares.
When everything is swirling in foaming acts of resistance
down the sinkhole of our humanity We the people rise
and give bow to a sham process everyday.
Bunkered in the basements of our glory holes
We trust in the image and give blank stares to its contents.
The imagists are tragic word pornographers
again and again the contents of the word.
Wake up! and look
with a much broader perspective
be captive no more
slap your fellow man on the back
and say brother, sister, look!
the sky is blue
as it always was
as it always