Posts
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Above the Dirt
I’ve left the round earth behind.
Above her curved back, I wait
to feel my feet again,
to be more than a giant who holds
the sun in his cracked palms.
to be more than a subversive symphony -
To Lorca's Missing Grave, To Franco, To Those Who've Left the American Flag a Bloodless/Bloody Blue and Black
Okay, so I am a bit embarrassed because this is like the fifth ode to Lorca I have posted on here. But sometimes you need obsessions. They are something through which you can channel your passion. -
Curves
There are boulders under my feet, songs with so much shape they can only be felt like they are the curved backs of our galaxy's multitude of suns. -
Nothing but Blue
Is it strange that Mary Oliver reminds me of Hafiz,
especially in the irresponsible dawn hours when I feel
like I could swallow God even before I swallow
my dreams, when the ghosts of swallows still dance -
Open Veins
I sit cross-legged in the raucous silence of the moment,
contorted into a preschool nightmare of tangled thoughts and tangled feet.
There is no freedom in meditation. It’s just a window you can't fit through. -
People Who Read Too Much Have Opinions on Henry Kissinger
people who read too much have opinions on Henry Kissenger
my friends tease me for my long rants on Ceaușescu and Communism and how if it wasn’t for Climate Change Norway’s management of its oil reserves would be Close to Commendable.
Loves
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The Samurai
Japan, 1863. Across the globe, the civil war rages.
I made the long walk
Across the plains,
through the village path
under the stars.
At long last, I came to the monastery
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cats
i think cats read poetry. you can tell
in the way their tails swish and how they fold their legs
all the time, probably wondering how silvery the pinecones
will look tomorrow,
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The Man
I met the strangest man today. He was dressed in a white lab coat, and he had a face like that falling sensation that jolts you awake when you're trying to fall asleep.
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VT
vermont is a half-finished poem with all the lines scratched out.
grandfathers who’ve lived here their whole lives still talk of leaving,
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Summer Camp
The dirty gravel path crunches under the tires of our Toyota. Dust rises around the car, blurring the tall vibrant trees hugging the road.
