unearthing poems
fractions of the self
tug at the edges of awareness,
like those frayed glimpses caught
in the shadows of clouds,
or the voices sometimes
heard in the wind;
all of which beg
an answer to the obvious:
is this me?
is this me?
is this me?
am i this?
am i this?
am i this?
I think we would all be less lonely
if we could hear shooting stars
as they streaked across our skies.
Both day and night,
we would all hear the roar
of the thousands of objects
irradiating in our presence.
Rather than just providing
a fleeting spectacle
for the lucky few
who remember to walk
away from their homes at night,
and sit transfixed
under skies so dark and cold
that their knuckles ache
with the knowledge
that our lives are minuscule
blips in the ether.
Instead,
we’d all hear the chorus
of the infinite voices
singing out
that life is in constant collision
with other celestial beings.
I know I would
feel less lonely,
at least.
A bead of blood
pools in my knuckle
like a tiny ruby
forged from the flesh;
a wound that never heals
[torn open once again
through my own neglect]
cuts deeper each day,
a constant reminder
that some things never change —
I know this pain
like the back of my hand.
Just because you don’t
like it, doesn’t mean it hurts.
(Brush your teeth), damnit.
(Wash your hands)
(Eat your food)
(Take a bath)
(Go to bed)
(Etc..)
The heartwood compresses to form a solid mass,
densely packed layers become the core of being.
Technically
the heartwood is dead,
but does not atrophy or decay
[unless the outer layers
become jeopardized],
the core provides
balance, stability, and security,
self-insulating,
simultaneously
protected
and expanding,
as sacrificial outer layers,
supply life and growth,
surrounded by an exterior
of dead, hardened flesh;
the reality
of one’s constant exposure
to an unforgiving world.
A core of sustained non-life,
an exterior of protective death,
and somewhere in-between,
a balance of
life, expansion,
sacrifice, sustenance.
Did the flower cause
The crack in the concrete, or
Merely exploit it?
Stress is the cleaver
That hacks the flesh from my bones,
With a direct correlation
Between
The weight
On my mind,
And the weight shed
From my body.
Like a tree in autumn,
Retreating inward,
My body is folding in on itself,
Conserving its core,
Until a new season
Of blossom.
Time and memory
Converge toward a single point.
Where did I begin?
Forever foreign;
Home’s distance beyond distant.
When did this begin?
Reinvent the wheel;
Freedom from the familiar.
Where do I begin?
A name was quietly erased today.
A name pulled from the records with no added explanation,
A name slipped away from our collective sub-conscious.
Illness gives way to absence, absence becomes prolonged indifference,
Prolonged indifference gives way to questioned existence,
A name is all that ties one to existence.
A name was quietly erased today.
What no one tells you:
Once off the ground, the earth spins
Away beneath you.
Does the wave question
Its own existence as it
Rolls back to the sea?
Given enough time,
All things are rendered neuter…
Given enough time.
A brown streak of smog
hangs above the horizon
like a skidmark in the sky;
an embarrassing stain left behind
on December’s crystalline-
blue perfection.
How did you learn to touch so gently?
Able to caress the silence of night,
Left hand as soft as the right.
It must have taken practice,
Sweet and gentle practice.
How did you learn to glow so golden?
I’ve seen this color on you before,
On a beach far away,
The sun setting like a volcano in the sky,
My toes raking through the sand,
As we were bathed in warm and golden light.
How did you learn to touch so gently,
And how did you learn to glow so golden?
It must have taken practice.
Sweet and gentle practice.
And cries could be heard far and wide as the hunger set in. The peanut-butter jar was now empty and echoing the sounds of despair as the knowledge set in that no sandwich would be made this day. But then Kraft the Redeemer took up the jar of vacant nuts and oils and began to scrape at the walls with an unadorned knife, transforming this simple jar from a useless, hollow item into something hallow. The cool metallic clanks of steel on glass could be heard resonating throughout the kitchen, as hungry urchins held their breath and stared with bulging eyes. Witnesses would recount far into the future the fantastic spectacle they beheld, as little by little peanut-butter continued to fall from the jar upon the toasted bread, creating a meal where no meal sat before. Songs of rejoicing illuminated the linoleum surface and drifted out through the open windows, for today a miracle was witnessed – the miracle of the Immaculately Conceived Sandwich.