In my experience there is this.
God is an idea.
There is this. This…
Trying to prove that I exist. Reading that I don’t.
If I were to kill MySelf, who would die?
Who would not die?
Where would the one who would not die go?
Where would the one who did die go?
Note to S/self: there is always somewhere to be.
lest the quivering heart
become an arrow
if at all
It Never Entered My Mind-
“I choose to live in the light of these awakened hours.”
Fate is a dark angel and deaf to our desperation + doubt.
Every kite ever flown, every first day of school,
the photographs taken when his blonde hair would still curl
are no consolation; considering the sweet tinctured sea that
swallows the soul so brutally + without remorse.
Still, the boy rises with every broken moon,
hovering + helpless while a voice whispers,
“You should land my hummingbird.”
My mother only took photographs of sadness. The Crown box camera clicked and fluttered the wide-eyed shutter that closed so slowly like a hesitant flower with its withering petals. The camera reminded me of a hearse and all of images were like minor funerals, the death of the moment each frame of the film captured. The still photographs were gravestones that we would visit on every holiday.
My mother thought of me as a suffering child for the way I always saw shipwrecks and storms in the eyes of other children. Also because I refused to have my photograph taken for I felt it was stealing, even then; stealing of the precious, unseen things that allow us to breathe in the rare air of the minor gods. I’ve always felt that our wings are not yet ready to fly quite so high just then and so we must learn to live among the ghosts of our ruined past before we reach the purer air. Even then, we risk the possibility of being torn to shreds by our doubt and the hawks whose eyes are nothing but the fuse of a fire we must fly through.
we bury sadness
in pictures of dying leaves
darkness has a way
I’ve been dead for years, splayed
on the flywheel of uncertain tides/
Banished by the gods to iridescent
indifference, a fuse of failure/
Please sign here, in blood for the
bones of yours alone/
The bruises become wings on which
electrified hopes are dashed/
Oh, the terror of the muses that play
only in the minor key/
The screams are tiny comets that burn
through an uncertain sky/
And dissolve or drown in silence.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged angels, Atomic Age, bite + curl, comets, gods, love, madness, minor key of melancholy, poetry, poets, Slaughter's Mad Dash
Heartbreak birds with broken beaks
orbit the wilting stem/
While the tide arrives, ocean graves
for the broken vow allowed/
Shipwrecked strangers with ghosts
Fountains of fate and futures
The smothered sun shines
blind, a lunar shell/
Wrapped in the luxury of
The blessing arrival of absence
Posted in Poetry
Tagged Arts, Atomic Age, chain of hours, emma watson, madness, melancholy, minor key of melancholy, poems, poetry, poets, prophet, shipwrecks, storms, the sea