It's where your heart goes, when you're done.
words, words. words;
I’m doing a sort of project that I already posted about before. Give me a word and its definition and I’ll try to write a poem about it. (acrossmywakingeyes I already got Xanadu and that will be a part of it, so you know.)
“I typed
“Happy Birthday”
but
I don’t
know you any more.
I keep finding out
my own human predispositions
and am
confined
by their ceilings.
I only
paint the walls
different
shades
of blue.”
20
I woke early this morning, grumbling into my pillow and bed sheets.
It’s too early to be alive.
The weather says 72 and sunny
But my window says fog littering the sky like oil spill.
I skip on the shower, took one last night
Discover I left my thermos somewhere from San Jose to Merced or its just temporarily lost in my contained mess,
Don’t have time to make coffee anyways
So my eyes stumble out of my apartment
(At least I remembered which way the dead bolt locks)
And head to the bus stop.
I headed out later than usual, cross the first street across since there’s no cars,
Get there early anyways,
Relearn that worrying aint helpin me much,
And get on the early bus.
This is the number 20 that comes from Salinas. I used to take the 16 from Marina but I moved and this works better now.
I catch it on its last stop out of Marina
As usual
And there’s more people than usual.
Usually it’s fairly packed for the MST but even more so now.
And I thought I had to wake up early.
Parenthetical
(Here I
will bury you
among
journal lines.
These are my roads
and
my crosswalks.
My
hallway
and
my rocking chair
and
(here
is where you will be safe)
(this will be
the closet
you can hide in
when the
dialogue
becomes
parasitic)
(and
you can rest
in between
all of my words
and their
sentences)
(I have
so many
parentheses
for you to find
solace in
so relish in them)
(curl up
in their
half-moon crescent)
(they are
natural
night lights
if you need them)
(
)
(some
are still
empty
crevices
and cracks
that
you are
okay
to step on)
(
)
(
)
(
)
(
)
(
)
(use)
(them)
(as)
(stepping)
(stones)
(in
between
(and leading
up to)
all of my insides)
(and I want you
to be here
because this is
where I spend
most of my free time)
(and where
all of my
afterthoughts
live, buried)
(they are
the tile floor)
(and hardwood)
(and
even
glass)
(but I
want you here)
(I want you
to exist not
only in my
paragraphs)
(but also in
my whispers)
(because of
what you are to me)
(you are my
parenthetical hindsight)
(my parenthetical eyesight)
(my parenthetical introductions)
(my parenthetical conclusions)
(my parenthetical everlasting)
(my everlasting parentheses)
you are
the whisper
before
the end
of all
my
sentences.)
Home
I
now
know
what
dust
smells
like.
Rabbit Man
He sits just outside
playing his guitar with a rabbit perched on his head.
I heard him play a song about Peter Cottontail once,
I know someone who got stoned with him once,
I saw him today.
Everyone seems fascinated by him,
the surprising tameness of his rabbit,
his joy.
But strip him of his guitar, his rabbits.
What does he become?
Another seemingly houseless man, asking for just a dollar or two since Carl’s is just up the street.
But then feet would meet pavement at a brisk walk,
minds would circulate hobo, bum, etc.,
but apparently a little bit of revealed talent erases your et cetera standing
and makes you acceptable.
But we are all made up of et ceteras, walking running, etc., into churches, graveyards, etc., getting new medication for our hearts, minds, etc., kissing lips, necks, etc., breaking hearts, broken hearts, etc., etc., etc.
We et cetera day-to-day
so is your et cetera different than mine?
The Center for Spiritual Living
Next to the international flags
sits a boarded up building.
Since my campus is littered with abandoned barracks
I’m used to seeing this sort of thing,
but this feels different.
This
is
The Center for Spiritual Living
and every day
it looks as if it closed yesterday.
Fresh wood
plastering every window
walls
cleaner than
my infant mind’s blue eyes
as if someone’s spiritual living
polishes the building with a daily conviction
why
did this place close?
If this building was absent from my eyes
if it had never been stenciled onto the wall of the perception of my reality
threaded through my bundles of consciousness
stapled stapled stapled
onto my birth-given scroll,
this would never be scrawled on work receipt paper
and my eyes would be a little less curious,
my hands a little less grasping of the spiritual cosmic brain that some of my friends have.
I guess,
a building boarded up and empty
will be taken care of
by our innate,
spiritual curiosity.
A Fucking Poem
I want to write you
some fucking poetry
and fucking
may not be
such a poetic word
but it is when
you strip it down
as we strip down
and show your blanket
that this isn’t obscenity
but rather
a clear morning sky
with beauty being rustled out
of branches
after all of the pine cones
fuck gravity.
Sorry,
there I go again,
not using such a pretty word
in poetry,
but I guess
we make it pretty,
we make it fall like stars
while the birds
turn into paper
and land in your hands
so you can hang
them above
our
heat-absorbing bodies
so they can fuck strings
and while you begin to rethink those
after
reading this,
next time
listen for the
paper birds
still singing
in orgasm
of the beauty
that folded
through your hands
as we sang
with whispered
ecstasy.
Listen to them,
at home
above
the shake of your body.
