A Poem On Thanksgiving (Dreams of A Grecian Mystic)

A Poem On Thanksgiving (Dreams of A Grecian Mystic)

there's a bird chirping outside
my window and a Mediterranean boy
who's been in my dreams
the last couple of nights.

my first thought was:
"It's too cold for that baby bird!"
ignoring the Grecian mystic
for as long as I can,

shuffling my feet at the end
of my bed, throwing the covers
around a bit, faking a yawn;
he's still there in my brain,

until finally, there's nowhere
between us. I say again:
"It's too cold for that baby bird!"
the boy stares blankly ahead.

without a word, he hands me a coin.
I'm unsure what to say,
so I nod and trace the contours
of a gold coin with a star on the back.

there are things to be thankful for;
strange dreams, gold coins, baby birds.
the fall of an empire, the rise
of a new star -- everything is changing.

all of it, meaningless; without you
I don't dream. Instead, I'm
a lost Mediterranean boy in a baseball park
trying to get home on Thanksgiving.

Godard Without Pretension (Actors With Tragic Lines)

the breath you exhale,
quiet and sacred to me,
leaves me breathless, like
Godard without the pretension,
and sometimes, it's a choice
between nothingness and love,
where no one is being sincere
-- actors with tragic lines.

I long for your hands,
which hold my heart in place,
Atlas of my universe,
carrying the ugly realizations
of an ugly man, flawed and
scarred. you kiss me anyway,
knowing that winter could steal
us away -- frozen stares forever.

I place your key
inside my chest, being both,
sign and signifier, for timeless
trust in a feeling we both
feel -- the entelechy appearing
entirely outside the realm
of language, drawing the breath
out of me, where, "I love you,"
meets forever.

Silent Devotion

Silent Devotion

the way her hands fit

along the seams of my heart,

like a tailored glove, suits me

fine. the way our mouths

light up at night, glancing back

at the metal moon thinking,

"how did I deserve this?"

never really expressing how

I must've been born lucky

or fulfilled my karmic duty

in a past life, silent devotion

stripping me of my actual love,

leaving behind a bitter shell,

one that doesn't speak when

everything is on the line, watching

her lose interest, saying only,

"talk to me, what's wrong?" 

the hardest thing I do

is not answer.

and the fights will happen,

little things that could've been

avoided, if only I hadn't taken

my vow of silent sabotage

at birth, realizing that it's the only

thing keeping me together anymore

 -- devotion to my own fucking idiocy.

vast and expansive, a Rubicon

of emptiness that I cannot cross

without her love.

as she turns to leave, I

break my vow of silence.

finally saying, "if you decide

to go -- I won't stop you."

Epistle to Your Former Self

but when the party was over and the others had gone to bed, the man was still awake, lying on his back looking up at the stars. pairing off like Noah's Ark, his friends were happy and he was happy for them so they all were happy. but he wanted to be happier and he wanted to not be a liar and he wanted all these pretty things in life that turned into pretty little disappointments -- rubies that turn to dust in your hand. the stars were starting and flickering and fading and the man was tired of the stars being so far away from him. cold distant light, an anglerfish at the bottom of his heart, tempting him with light and food and water, all of it good for him but none of it real. stars like teeth on a saw, cutting into him every time he looked up. so he decided he would never look up again, he would forget about her, whoever she was, and he would stare down into the earth, that cold, lonely last stop, never really stopping to look where he was going, but always escaping from the starsaws.

and it's easy when you're down. it's harder to stand up, to not crack, to shout fuck you every time someone who said they'd be there isn't. but it's just not possible anymore. you lost that golden glow, the blonde haired girls of your past, you've lost yourself in someone else -- someone who isn't charming or brave or confident or clever. and you get tired of writing these rants that have no end, always thrown off by the pacing of the whole ordeal, always looking for a way out of these worthless words and trying to find a way to become more actual -- more entelechinetic. which is not to say that I'm real anymore, but the process of becoming real would be nice; a wraith in the willows.

Junk-Garbage Writing

alone again -- desperate diner living,
eating cold coffee with bitter regrets,
I'll bet that he's over and I'm over it,
those razors in your eyes, hands
clasping cold kindness, bringing back
what you took away from me before
there was nothing left.

Poem for Alisha on Her Birthday

Of Love First-Hand

there will always be love
the way that there will always
be flowers -- gold blooms on
black days, boys with hard hands
to soften your heart.

there will always be love
from your friends, the people
who bring you sunlight, who
bring you back from nighttime
dreams of the past.

there is always love
from the cats, meowing
softly as you pet them,
not sure who is being put at ease,
but thankful nonetheless.

and I know his love for you
transcends what I have known
of love first-hand. he will always
be your shade during summer;
the tree where you carve your initials.

Alisha -- no matter what happens,
there will always be love
between the stars, smiling
while you read this, thinking how
lucky we are to have you in our lives.