Summer Rains

poetry

Summer rains are so easy to forgive

Not a hindrance, but worn as an accessory for the evening.

A soothing pitter-patter on the windshield

A slightly inconvenient sprinkling that only adds more character to the night.

Or a welcome gift to our lawns and gardens:

The hallelujah afternoon downpour:

All watered and cooled–

the air fresh with verdure and petrichor;

A passing spell,

The whisper of Nature’s mercy,

A moment of weakness in the heavens,

A minor fracture in the sky,

A brief, cathartic sob 

We receive with tempered joy–

Summer rains are so easily forgiven. 

Dandelion Love

poetry

I am the sun
I am canary song
and summer lawns

My core is fractal yellow
A cosmic burst
bright as the light on the other side

hollow-stemmed and soft to the touch

I am everywhere

bitter-smelling
quick-wilting
hard-fighting
and irritating

If you’re fool enough to love me
and tired enough to welcome me
I will only get worse

I propagate myself as a constellation corpse
and by the second-thought wishes of passerby’s

capricious winds
capricious whims

and before you know it

I am everywhere

Written for a Friend on the Eve of his Birthday

life

The body.

It decays, yet:

These houses of meat are but temporary things for our soul to reside in while we experience this world.

This version of reality and consciousness.

All of our souls chose this plane of existence for some reason.

It’s a class we’ve all enrolled in.

To learn things.

Soul things.

Like how to Love and have Compassion and to learn Acceptance—

this reality is an ultimate test in Acceptance.

This world has infinite ways to humble us again.

And again.

Whenever we think we know.

To show us what we must accept about others and ourselves.

We learn to yield our great capacity for knowledge and noise to our destiny of peace.

Of sweetest silence

and quietude.

The state from which we arise and to which we return.

And every moment our bodies persist is another moment to learn.

And wonder.

Every moment

is another opportunity for awe

And gratitude.

Dearest Friend,

you’ve persisted

and continue to persist—

these moments

this life

is a chance to find

new horizons of possibility for our souls

knowing that whatever we find

is what we’ve always been meant to see.

The weight of conclusions

and decisions

dissipates once we realize that the only way to live

is to live.

So,

as long as you’re alive

—knowing every moment is a reward that we’ve somehow earned—

—that has been mysteriously given—

please feel

blessed.

Please feel amazed

and unafraid.

There is nothing to fear,

these things,

they happen.

The body, it decays.

That is the world.

But you are a soul,

Dearest friend.

To Live Like This

life

If you’re going to live like this, there are some things you should know:

You are going to fuck up. Often. People are going to question you. Often.
You are going to take their advice with a grain of salt.
You are going to prove them right. Often.
And then
You are going to prove them wrong.
And all you need to do is prove them wrong once
to emerge a hero, with a tale, a lesson, an experience that they will covet.
That they will exalt. They will tell the tale far and wide,
even though they were on the sidelines, giving their warnings  and crying foul,
because you fuckin’ did it.
You will be remembered.

You will have to fight against instinct.
You will refuse to acknowledge fear.
There will be fear.
And it means nothing.

You will not live to be scared.
You will not live to be proper.
You will not live to be OK.
You will live for the journey.
You will live for the tragedy and the suspense and the miraculous and the uncomfortable and the astounding and the unanticipated and the glorious.
You will live for the best.
And you won’t be left wondering.

You might not live without regrets,
but you won’t regret regretting
because, damn,
it will be amazing.

Predator (Siren Series)

poetry

I breathe you in like water
You rush through me and out of me:
a tickle at my ear.

I hum a tune that is faint and purple
wandering.
You barely notice that you notice me.

You will try to ignore it,
fight to push it out of your mind,
but you won’t stop listening.

I sing honey liquid notes
so soft
you’ll hear whatever you want to hear

You will find yourself
ever closer to me.
Returning to
the perfumed air around me:
Sweet lotus blossom
salty ocean breeze
paranormal pheromone.
Intoxication inevitable.

You will find bliss,
you will lose yourself,
and I will take you there.

If you come closer,
I will breathe you in like water and
We will rush through me,
together,
no more pain.

To Andrew

poetry

We both lost our minds abroad.

We have the same maladies and
We both receive the same antidotes.

We find ourselves in the same impossible situations
We both heal ourselves through poetry.

We live by poetry
We both speak a language earned by artistic suffering.

We admire beauty and minutiae
We both abide by the imagination.

We sink to the same depths and
We both lift eachother back up.

Reflections on Rochester

Uncategorized

Pain, absolution, pain, catharsis.
chasing that high:
tension, release.
Resist, surrender–
The exhilaration of experience:
an object of desire so abundantly meaningful…
elevated close to total importance
to the extent that the pleasure of longing for it sometimes exceeds the pleasure of obtaining it.

A wise person once said that love can be defined as “the acute awareness of the impossibility of possession”
This is true.
I skirt along the border of attainment,
feeling the thrill of nearly
and the ecstasy of almost.

The Words of a Young Man

Uncategorized

These are the words of a young man;
he is wounded and
nothing was ever fair.

They’re hollow but still sting a bit
hurling them as if
there is no future.

In exhausted cadences the argument
is that all could never be lost when
it was always pointless.

Voice unwavered and feeling wrong,
piercing proclamations insisting on
meaning it this time.

Smothering all the hurt he has
Inevitably including the possibility that
he once loved you.

Because it was 2:00 AM

Uncategorized

Because it was 2:00 AM and she was haunted by someone else’s tragedy. She couldn’t imagine his pain but kept trying to, compulsively. And praying. Because she listened to beautiful songs– their vibrations sent shivers of sadness down her arms. All she wanted was to sing his sorrow, to begin the catharsis. The bloodletting, tuneful purging. Where was the melodious healing in the vaccuum of his grief? She finally turned off her dim lamp in exchange for the dampened darkness. Just to give her eyes a rest. She fell asleep to the rhythm of internal invocations of hope:
Let him be ok.
Let his suffering be less.
He has so much to give and his rejoicing will be revived.
His breathing will come more easily.
Will swell and pass.
Swell and pass.

And so she slept. Because it was 2:00 AM.