Thursday, July 12, 2012

turtle of today

busy busy, always busy
running from point A to C.
what's an oreo without the creme?
or bookends on an empty shelf?
hyperopic eyes focus on the horizon,
never dropping to see the dashes on the road.
reminiscing's fun but regret's widespread
when we will life to take on lunar gravity
demanding it leap when it should crawl.
why can’t we be content with today?
must we always live one step ahead?
there's value in the quotidian,
truth in monotony.
unembellished breaths propel us forward
in ways hyperventilation never could.
put tomorrow’s rabbit out of your head, turtle of today.


Thanks, Velvet Verbosity.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Revolution 179

when nature holds her breath
the skins upon the mast fall flaccid,
their tapestries' richness untold -
words withheld to punish
her unshared whispers.

Nothing given, nothing shared.

homicidal waves shore simple rafts
unprepared to leave an ordered existence,
unprepared to float away as driftwood.
how can one hold onto herself
without trunks beside to bestow meaning?

Mutability of form veils similitude of locomotion.

you left your oars in a boathouse on the mainland;
mine were lost along the way
along with my rebellious spirit.
scarlet flames fizzled as they fell overboard,
fiery fingers never fated to reach the Red blaze.

My revolution became intangible at 179 degrees.

i smuggled a glowing ember onto an imagined isle.
i cannot bring myself to extinguish its life.
it promises a future laden with violence and heartache,
whose progression i should halt with vigor
but must i discard the scraps of memory?

Cookie-cutter philosophy leaves the territory outside its borders unexplored.

were we to smash doughy remnants together
would they remember having been divided
and focus on differences?
or would they recognize their similarities
and acquiesce to homogeneity?

Rhetorical questions cultivate algebraic wastelands.

we stand on separate strips of land
divided by azure complications.
nature's lifeblood invigorates the division,
sharpening the taste of treachery.
i savor the wrongness.


Sunday, July 1, 2012


i asked you once to cook for me
you probably don't remember
such a minor conversation
but i do.
and you did.
let's put significance where it doesn't belong
like a cheesy romance
and pretend it means something
when it's just sustenance
but isn't hope the same thing?
and isn't faith just confidence that things will be ok?
and they are.
we're not an entity;
we'd never have added up right.

besides, i've already used my plus-sign.
(and multiplication is imminent)

perhaps the division was necessary for a while
because now the shavings of graphite have blown away,
but i can't handle subtraction with you.


thanks for the produce.
the scarlet pulp
and tiny seeds
suggest growth and vitality
but it's all a farce, the whole fruit:
it's been torn from the vine.