Fallen Star

What a year it was for him,
watching his favorite star fall out the sky.
It tumbled silently at first,
and seemed so graceful
that he rejoiced,
because something was happening,
something exciting, before his eyes,
a spectacle.
But he knew it wasn’t that simple,
from the times he had fallen.
And this star was so much higher up
than he had been.
He imagined
the life of the star.
How it was raised,
up to that point
where it shone
for billions of years,
and millions of miles.
How it must've toiled to rekindle its own explosions
when the supernovas seemed to burn so much brighter.
How it must've struggled
against the pull of other galaxies
to maintain its orbit,
to stay at that spot
where he had watched it
everyday for years.
What grief it must've felt
to have fallen
when previously,
so many eyes had fallen on it.
But he also knew
the star wouldn't mind
because he hadn't lost sight.
And when he climbed the roof that night
and had to squint maybe a little harder
than he had before,
his eyes twinkled again
when they found his favorite star.

Digging

         Searching in the ground for something buried long ago. Where to begin? How deep do I go? Keep hearing in my head, “The X marks the spot, The X marks the spot.” As if there could be some treasure. So much gravel in the way of sweet soil, it’s hard to get through. I just want to dig… 

         Just want the ground to give. When I dig. When I live. I find solace in the repetition. In the sedimentary depositions. What is my position on the friction of my mission? Well, the gravel sucks and the soil rocks, so much coal for Christmas socks. No crystals here, no emeralds neither. Not even a flash, of an ephemeral pleaser. Alone in my hole, the digger’s den. Far from the worries of women and men. The deeper I go, the closer to China. They should give me a hardhat and call me a miner…

        But I’m not going back up, not in a million years. Not until I’m dead and fossilized. Not until they have to go through a thousand layers just to excavate me. Not until they have to cut through all the gravel I did to get here. Just to find me. And wonder what I once was.

Printing Press

He has gone too far, there is no escape.

As he shoulders his fate,

In between a boulder and a plate,

The rollers flatten him into an awkward shape.

His death is slow, the pain is real,

How did he end up with such a raw deal?

How was he flawed? Where his Achilles heel?

His bones crunch under the weight of the wheel.

His skull now splits open, he relinquishes his claim

To the words inside that are now given to fame,

Distorted and contorted, they are bound to his name,

As his precious thoughts are smashed out of his brain.

Time watches him go, swept away in a blink,

As the meaning of a corpse is lost in its stink,

So is his soul and mind, his work’s only link,

How much he has suffered to be written in ink.

Lone Trumpeter

What sounds does the trumpeter blow from his horn?

when there is no stage, no lights

no audience

When in his band are

a fluorescent bulb buzzing and insects chirping

outside his basement window

When his songs vanish as he plays them,

never to be pressed into a record

or a soul

These silent sounds,

they intoxicate him

so that even he cannot recall how good they felt

From a dream

She doesn’t have to strain herself too much these days. She just is. How is she, you might ask? It’s hard to say, really. On the surface she is pretty, gracious, and considerate. Her first noticeable feature, which will speak to you long before she will, is the simple symmetry of her face. Everything about its design is elegant. Decorated by the fiery and uncharacteristic eyebrows are her softest eyes, like a slumbering dwarf star girded by fiery meteor showers. Her eyelids look like they must be very heavy and inclined towards sleep, and she doesn’t strain herself to keep them open wide. Though, it is as if their purpose is to gaze, to see through the flimsy charades of her counterparts and into their spirit. These eyes are not greedy-- they are neither searching for treasures nor carried away by pleasures. They are a faithful and humble servant to their master, her mind; and they stretch out to her lover when her mind is no longer relevant, joining the two hearts together, miraculously rushing the blood from one to the other. The ample width between her eyes allows a spacious feeling that calms you before her best feature claims you as it draws your eyes gently towards the center. This nose I speak of arches outward into a rounded tip and if you look straight ahead the bridge of it, along with the cartilage of her well-proportioned nostrils, resembles the Hindu temples at Bhubaneswar. You can imagine her breath circulating in concentric circles within these rounded chambers, effortlessly chugging up the oxygen necessary to keep her lamp lit. And how bright it shines, when southward her lips are stretched by the power of an effervescent smile... and another, and another. When her bow is strung by the might of her heart, and her words are let flying like magical arrows, they are known to heal as they strike instead of causing damage. Sometimes her nervousness shows, but what more fertile grounds than the furrows of her forehead to plant seeds of comfort and security. Sometimes she is tired, but what greater bags to fill with the fruits of loving labor than those which form under her eyes when she is exhausted, when even the perfection of this face of hers shows the signs of wear and tears... and tear? If I have been the destroyer, cannot I also be the creator? Can’t my sun evaporate the tears that the clouds of my sky have let loose. I love this face. I adore it. Can’t I have this face forever?

Ragged

look at that one... Ragged.
taken for a stroll. dragged along the road.
is it allowed to hope?
does it have time to despair?
look at that one... ragged.

that one has suffered, yeah...
scolded by an iron rod, chastised with a rough leather strap,
you can tell it felt like smashed porcelain,
from its baggy eyes.
yeah that one has suffered.

does that one hurt? is it numb?
stumbled many a mile on those clanging heels,
oh, that one is well-traveled,
been to places a nightmare would not conjure up.
was it stung? or is it numb?

will it find a bed?
and rest in slumber. one night
without being chased out from its covers?
will it find what it yearns for?
will it find its home?
won’t they take it in, this love?

look at that one... Ragged.
taken for a stroll. dragged along the road.
is it allowed to hope?
does it have time to despair?
look at that one... ragged.

Eggshells

He’s been in there a long time. Sloshing around. Slipping and sliding about along the sides of the curved wall. Sticky and syrupy, movements slowed like three toed sloths. Sapped of his energy, all the while trying to stay afloat. Swimming with eyes closed and numbed soul, he realizes his soupy predicament. The translucence of his confinement bathes him in a heavy amber glow.

He stops and holds his breath, then decides to take a different approach- solidifying ever so slightly. No longer splashing about, he waits it out. He bides his time, sitting soundlessly. All the noise is within. He feels himself stretch and expand and fill in- he can feel the growth. His gelatinous form stiffens, hardening against the thin yet powerfully sculpted walls. He soaks up his surroundings and reaches the point where the air supply is not enough to fill his lungs. Gasps replace the stillness and he rocks back and forth. Suffocation drives him head-first roaring into the barrier and...Crrraaaaackkkk.

He crashes out beautifully, covered in golden yoke, and dances around- a flash in the frying pan.

To Write Her Poem

the mob, the crowds, the rabbles rattle,
gossip swells amongst the prattle,
all the while he’s locked in battle,
to pin this elusive creature,
convey every facet, every feature.
digging into moons with brows damp,
the pen scribbles ‘til his palm cramps,
putting a seal on it, his heart’s stamp,
eschewing using the typewriter,
for this, a method far quieter.
stealing hours the other side of the sun,
words spiraling out like the bullets of a gun,
he commands, "write, ‘til the lexicon come undone!"
his crews assembled in rows unending,
the room emanating, the verses pending,
the man at work, a preposterous task,
to tap the finest wine from a buried cask,
and reveal the beauty beneath a mask,
he peels each layer from its shell,
to put in words beauty’s look, touch, and smell:

Her eyes were fastened on the one she chose
Her skin felt softer than the petals of a rose
Her heart burned bright the way neon glows
This is the one who is marrow to his bone
This is the one he has made his own

Why is the Ocean Blue?

We used to run and build and play
Our joys and plans would fill the day,
We used to whisper and talk and chatter,
Our thoughts were shared on every matter
We used to joke and tease and laugh
Our merriment took unknown paths

But then the hour gets too late
runaway trains with coal in freight,
his fragile mind deteriorates,
the ones at the station can only wait.

The birds disperse, the bats do fly
A light goes dim within his eyes,
standing, waiting, his hands look shy,
he only means to say goodbye.

I used to be able to sit down and read
About the different places in the world.
The seven wonders, the great blue sea.
Filled with great blue whales and great white sharks.
I wondered why the waters were blue
Until someone explained it to me once.
What a sad day that was.

Rubble Telescope

He wakes up in the ruins of a destroyed home. All his memories are still there, intact, but there are no more walls. The windows he used to gaze into the future with are all filled in with rubble. He feels trapped, a cornered tiger. Fuck, more like a cornered gazelle. Always running away from the facts. The first thought that comes to his mind is, “Human sacrifice, anyone?”

He knows, however, that he will be hard pressed to find a place where an Aztec will tear out his heart and other internal organs anymore. The Aztec would be too gentle a punishment for his crimes, anyway. He looks up and sees a beautiful bird hovering around. It used to be his bird, when the structure of the home could contain the two of them.

Now it has been let free from its ugly confines, but still it hovers one more time around its strange companion of old.