A Volume of Carelessness

You smile down at me from the perch you so clung your heels to

A garden variety tyranny

Your ghost, made of milk

The tree you grew in my living room

Exceeds my reach

More parable than structure

The turnips too, which sprout in spring

Although bitter, at least they are kind

The mushrooms memories have no story of origin

The scholars of disbelief

And the pot which belongs to the flower holds the lightness of boulders

Their roots have legs stuck deep down in the mud

To unpack them requires a brute, impractical strength

Not unlike that of flight

I have known those that use intellect to damage

To chip at the soft underbelly

And the roadmap back from apart makes less sense

The spoken word lost from the echo of brain to mouth

A relief almost indistinguishable

But finally the canopy is a drone of an unstruck heart

A flavor held in an ephemeral shell

You’re Cold; I Burn

What I cannot discern

Can only be forged through an excavation

Uncovered, unearthed, interrogated

I want to burn it all up

Mover of lines and shaker of the sky

Does the clamor amongst the terrain echo

As ricochet

As reflection

Inverted and projected across the horizon

Displayed against a backdrop of time stood still

The foreground a state of warfare

A battle cry to the long sweeping plane that softly kisses the edge

Write love to me, lick me

The sweetest of all songs those words

But the memory of what chose me more is haunting

Why must you withhold the illumination

Necessary to bear witness to resistance

The why’s less loud

No longer held in the secret confluence of the stars

Instead in the scum that won’t pitch from the facet

Padlocked and want of amity

A collection of objects rather than a communion of subjects

Did you not know the tones we were creating was the very fabric of eternity

Your touch was a tonic of specific preference

Satisfying a salacious plea

And I’m commemorating on a foyer I don’t own

Fostering a love I don’t want 

Bright Eyes Beget Empty Bellies

What has happened to your muchness?

What realness is required of a dream?

But a love that stretches to the moon from the ether and reaches the deep abyss from the most brilliant star

Although it is terribly crowded in here

The noise pushing at the perimeter

Bowing the beams

A horn thronged tail that split the scene

I was taken apart today

When we weren’t the last two remaining figures on Earth

My pieces shattered as glass

When the breadth of grace has been spent

What glance will our forms leave behind

Hope cannot too decompose

Ought

Unwanted transcended a whole existance

Too little, too much, no good, too good

Stay aware, remain light

Don’t look down, but not too high up either

Dream of Everest, but also of the wind

Of productivity, efficiency

But what of betrayal, what of persistence and the willingness to endure?

What of time and unconditionalities

Who will love in absolution

In spontaneity, with passion, unbridled, and big

Too big?

If fear is a response to risk, how do we sustain compassion?

Is this too much weight?

A Congress

He said, “We’re almost there; I recall this meadow”

But then the meadow lasted for another thirty minutes

Anyway, “I recall this meadow” he said

And the analagous nature of torture against the ridges and crests of the forest floor became painfully evident

They say in America 100 years is a long time; in Britain 100 miles is a long way

And that’s the thing

You feel the loss of something until it’s completely gone

The Importance of Staring at Trees

A gaze harvested from the saplings that grew from the accidental consumuption

Sprouted a pattern

Of cultivation and decomposition and repair

The assumption a tree holds of its comparison to the surrounding others

The obligatory nature of change

To what does a leaf owe the branch

The flower, the pod

The cause, the effect

You, the impetus

The fruit, the seed