Winter stills my heart
I go where the bears go
And we together leave trails for the tourists
Up in the Alps, where the rings are clear
And the weather is cedar
I wed the cup of cocoa, lilting to tune
Ne’er made off with the weeds, they ripen too
And whispering in the ear, it is a whistle of the wind
Think harder!
Think harder!
Think think think!
Me A: So… what’s it like being illiterate?
Me B: It sucks.
Me A: Why?
Me B: Because I can’t enjoy reading.
Me A: Well why don’t you try harder?
Me B: It’s too hard. It’s too difficult. It’s hard work, and I don’t do hard work.
Me A: Well why don’t you try?
Me B: Because it’s too hard and unrewarding.
Me A: Why is it unrewarding?
Me B: I don’t know.
Me A: Well I guess that’s settled then. You just can’t read for leisure.
Me B: I guess so.
Me A: It’s a shame, since I am you. I would love if we could read. For leisure.
Me B: Yeah I know. Me too.
I’m starting to get the impression that most of my poems aren’t that good.
Hahaha!
Oh well.
~
Lull of tune, I sing and dance I moan I beget
The fallen, the stardom crest, the bitter frond
Memory recalling me to this last place
I plunder the crest, sit still and patiently
And smile, wryly, like all the rest
Press letter
Between thumb and forefinger
Native language dispersed
Like crumbs to the ocean breeze, letter torn
Dispersed like flower petals at the wedding
Dispersed like the schoolchild crowd at the park
On field trip to the joy ride
Section: Distillery
No, wonder, no mixing this thing up
I leave and am lost
What age am I?
Which corridor leads to the present?
I stumble down the aisles, purchase groceries
Perpetually silent, silent movie running in front of me
In front of my inner eye
But I have no celebration, no coming of age
Just another zoo animal, on display
Everyone ignores, it is a farce
Without being bitter, I know, and I know that I know
So I walk on, through the doors, following another light in the tunnel
Often left-handed, clumsy social scene
Nonexistent people ploughing through my path
Faces on the promenade
Always faces
All this way, all that
Weekend, weekend, lovely sun
Scorch scorch, rumination of cancer
I can play ball! I swear
No fear of the distant near future
No tussling in the sheets for me, the star
I fear only the losing of loss itself
Never wonderment, always endearing
It is a hollow echo what plays on the drums of the mind’s ear
When strangers be near
~~~
This one’s about life. Could you tell? I don’t like how the intro has nothing to do with the main body. Oh well.
Voices come calling
Voices come rolling
Not that I will ever admit I did
Not that I will ever admit it damaged the sponge in my skull
How can sponges be damaged?
They can be torn and chemically imbalanced
Or so says the psychiatrist, at least one half of that is true
So I absorb all I can, with the cracks still in between
And voices come calling
Voices come tumbling
Not that I ever fell down
Except in kindergarden off the playset onto the concrete
Where I then awoke on the sofa at home later that day
No word of concussions
But I play, and continue to feel the pain of psychic storms
Sudden blackouts, during the games
And voices come calling
And voices come singing
Not that I sing when I’m drunk
Nor that the nerve endings weren’t blunted and stunted
From all that drinking in college
But I have switched to water–not vodka, haha–and try to stay hydrated
Without incurring to much sobriety
And voices come calling
And voices come breathing
Not that I forgot how, just that the standards are a bit high
What with yoga and belly breathing in the air
The therapist reminds me of the trends
And I remember asphyxiating in my room from too much marijuana
And voices come calling
And voices come calling
~~~
Feels unfinished but you know I don’t generally like patterned poems. :). Hopefully you find some humor in this one.
A weed harrows
I light my light
Say never, null
Lantern to fix me up
Again, I froth over
Be it stasis,
Propaganda, in the ocean
I wander, lust
Butter the friends up
We slip into dream
Many a wary traveler
Make ocean wake
Wake static, fake
Leave this place
For crumbling water
Over the soul, we fill
And pour over
Into the leaky bucket, me
Tender
Lifting cross on scorched hillside
Something’s off
About this family, this life…
Wonder what’s–it’s me?
Don’t!
How used to it.
My age should care of itself, I doubt not that I’m regressin’
Powers ‘n actin’
Mustn’t be more alert
Avoid slips
This will makes me a different whole
It seems like something big is
What got lost?
Oh by the way my favorite season is early spring, when all the gentle rain falls.
