The quiet inadequacy of small jesture

juxtaposed with big world.

I fear movement down same street,

each step overwhelmed by grandness in an eternal pale.

(Yet, the need to embrace.)

I was told something with a sting and beauty early this morning. A very smart man said, “Literature is our revolt against history.” Our. He knows. The search—nook and cranny for construct, the semblance of pillar and shrine. It all results in loss. The knowledge that all falls. And it falls for no particular rhythm. And we are not musicians.

Plant your toes back to the sky so to not be hard tongued, but rather, open and free. You live in heads right now, but when toes rise up, you will see. Tomorrow after tomorrow you will be sitting upon a map—you will drink a lot, you will miss creature comforts you will start over and over again.

Look outside your window and forget syntax, forget proper nouns! So, do not sit exhausted from the use of “I.” And please, plant eyes and toes and tongue upon that sky.

We never tell a story unless we need to tell a story, and always under times of transition. We find life in characters, placating of the soul, until sinews and tissues rapture.

This is why I love you.

Now,

I live in a box

it’s grey and golden.

I sleep next to

You sleep next to.

Now it’s

time to shuffle everyone in

so we can hopscotch out.

and when it rains on us

it sings great songs

We’re going hum

(when we’re old)

But

now,

We’re cynical

We’re in worship

and it’s going to end

unless we make it out,

I know.

I like when you stick to

my sheets,

Cradled inside the bottom of

my mattress,

Dipping your toes within the foot of

my bed.

I feel like heavens should send down wine,

ease it down down down

my throat.

So quite after, night specters reveal

perfect deterioration of mind,

as is the search for liberation

as is the search for repose.

A Reason to Not Bow Down

He bowed down to her,

He knew why.

The simplicity

Of her as his was worth

The abandonment of pride.

He looked into her pale brown eyes.

He knew

She was a quiet woman,

He knew

She did not move him.

Yet with his two knees down,

He thought,

Goddamn, she was perfect for silence.

He asked for her because she was effortless,

She was decent.

He stared at her seat

He knew

She would receive him,

He knew

She did not love him either.

love poem

We start sentences with time,

But our decline of movement

Has prevented sustenance:

LISTEN,

I want to be simple with us

But, consciousness is useless,

At least

With two

Of us.

What was before the flood?

I awoke.

Today it is winter,

And the cold weather digs holes in my hands.

This brown hair, crisp in

Early sunrise walks,

Lazy with headache.

Today, treat me.

Treat me.

“Let us go further!”
We would recite like sounds of horns.
And we did.

Our rubble was beautiful during the heavy summer,

And we’d sit silent on roofs made of mountains.

now, go.

Christ, how I get myself into things!

Misdirection’s plunge

under white skies and

others dark eyes.

And

you'll never know

the ink spills on these hands,

that

I could stab my eye

so to carve it out,

just to place it delicately in anothers drawer for later:

Gone.

Now, go.

spend your days silently waiting

for something lost,

Sunshine is cheap.

Push the needle through this muse,
Hit the recta fluid to my belly:
This is fine,
Made of quiet prayers and moans to an inadequate God,
But hard boiled eggs hold more love in the palm of my hand.

This late night sunset wraps around like repetition. Standing through my window looking down so to admire the strength of sincerity the woman below holds—juxtaposed—draped within her burka, against the pink smear of the sky.
Instead, here.
I smoke my rolled cigarette,
Awaiting the fall
Into dense green, when those thorns hit me
Allow my skin irritation, red and stung.

We could’ve been
Perfect confluence:
Merge, babe.

a prayer to return

Seek refuge,
Let us be gracious.
Let us find shelter in fruit trees of spring.
Let us be held in their knotted palms.
Let us converge into earth.

I resolve not to love to love!
She says on the blissful day of rebirth.

Outside her window is ocean and road.
She wants both.
“Torch the damn place,” she said.
So it fell,
And it goes.