Friday, September 15, 2017

George’s Island

I am a picture
of feigned indifference;
but I am no different—
I am an island.

A choir of birds sings
out to the sea;
and the earth we’re on beats.

           Isn’t it lovely—

A’wash with wet grass, 
quiet, and ruin,
and a morning sky
made of sweet dreams and lead.

I am morbid, but I’m light as air.
I wish I could sing
like the birds to the sea;

Clear and so loud,
I would tell it 

           it’s lovely.

And from above us falls
the perfect kind of rain
for a day like today

atop two islands.

Neptune’s Waltz on Sapphire


I know it, I cry,
my shadow is thin,
but when Neptune moves backwards
you'll find me again.

For I'm perfect under every flaw,
and my shell is much higher
than these city walls;

But the salt water, it’s in my veins,
and too oft' wages war on the flesh of my face.

So when Neptune moves backwards,
like the day I was born—
when the mirrors tell truths,
when the smoke dissipates—

You’ll find me left naked,
bereft of this burden,
in clarity bathing,
and present again.

And who would have thought being born in July
would mark me the sign that would drown me in life.

----------
Really old fragments collaged together. Was embracing my inner Cancerian that night.

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

The Daydreamer


Daydreamer 
says he's pushed against 
the wrong side of the glass,
and he hurts to be on the other side
to touch what he can see,
but never hold;

           and his blood is in my veins.

Daydreamer
spits out his rhyming words, viciously,
trying to prove that he knows more than me,
dying to feel his worth;

           and he thinks he's God,
           and could explode because no one else can see it.

Daydreamer
is up,
and he's down;
He's drowning,
and he's invincible.

One day he's gunna live on the road,
says he's gunna have a travelling art show, 
with lights and masts and a weathervane,
and people are gunna come from miles around.

His grey hair
and grey eyes
and grey soul
are fading into the fog,
and all the talent in the world 
is obscured by his inability 
to be human.

           Because no one can related to this
           would-be wandering,
           daydreaming man.

Daydreamer's
got stars in his eyes
and they're shining so bright
they're obscuring the world;
But he swears that one day, once he forges his way,
he'll open his eyes, and his pillow case
will hold all of the dreams from the Windowland--

And he knows this is true,
           because he knows everything; And I'm scared I'll be like him,
                                                                                             because I daydream, too.

Sunday, December 18, 2016

Non Serviam

I am a pagan without gods.

The moon inspires and comforts me;
The sun warms and strengthens;
And the earth—
the earth heals and clothes and nurtures and holds me.

In a world where gaseous balls burn as lamplight above,
where we are reborn from their dust
and their light sings us a song we know,

who needs gods?

----
I honour the sun and moon because it gives me joy to celebrate them, and not because I believe they can bestow favours or a joyous afterlife—and certainly not because there will be negative ramifications if I don’t. I honour the earth because, after all she has given me, it is the least thing I can do. My faith celebrates human nature, and not the suppression of it. My faith provides no collar for the soul, but a field for it to dance upon and a sky for it to dream under. My faith is no faith, but the absence of it; and hence, my faith is freedom.

Sunday, November 20, 2016

Wet November

A wet, wet November, 
and the world has fallen hushed;

And my mind wanders to things—
to wonders and things—

like how I’m just a soul, and you’re
just a soul,

and how rain falls like magic 
upon the human psyche.

And today I feel too big for 
this pretty little box, and
a little too small for
this dripping wet world.

Restless

Distance waters down—
like tape that’s lost its stick.

There’s a green patch over there—
and a longing in my hands.

And who else would have thought
that I would lose my words?

And maybe my grip.
And maybe my grip.

But I’ll continue to hold on,
like tape that’s—
like tape.

The Late Spring

Burnt orange breast!
Dance upon the dry bent grass.

Open your wings,
sing loud and chime;
Announcing the day,
“The sun is bright!”

It’s time to be free
and, rusted, fly.

----
Spring 2015, after the coldest, longest winter of my memory. But, freedom.