The sea aches with the setting sun,
where immutable forces meet
something stirs.
Eyes catch but a glimpse
before the light is pulled beneath the waves;
the curled fingers of Poseidon
throttling the form.
Resigned to the demise below
the last hope of a tired dream
dies,
as the dreamer did long ago.
High quality plastic eraser.
Hi-polymer lead.
A legacy of cartilage,
ancient and soft with use
like a worn glove.
Sometimes a written word
can feel like a line drive caught,
the sun overhead
everyone switching positions,
all your concerns lost in an afternoon.
If I die in this place
who will find me?
Like a piton
this thought, is stuck in my mind
My sneakers were made for lazy days
for sidewalks and classrooms
they fold over rocks like jerky
slipping
more often than
catching.
They are quick to remind me
I don’t belong
here.
but the height makes me quicker still
all the while still wondering…
If I die in this place
who will find me?
Scaling the cliffside
I look for rebellious roots
terrified brittle limbs
confident rocks
eager to help a hand
miles away
my home is empty
the sun is setting
and my mind echoes…
If I die in this place
Who will find me?
To you who are so confident in the sharp angles
who will not bend by force
but will shape the mind,
the scales by which our history is judged
the catalyst for all intellect divined,
I ask, what shape would be made of us otherwise?
Through you we’ve explored our history
Through you we’ve reached
Out
into the future
and found a place there
Whether
Quiet
Or loud.
Through you we have a voice that
transcends
our isolation.
There were a thousand years behind that hand
the cloth, pregnant with water,
hides the universe
gestating forever and always.
Together they press against an ancient brow
weary more from years than heat;
a symbolic gesture.
The way the sun hits the falling water
shatters it across the stonework.
At this altitude it looks like
anthropology screaming;
an echo of countless others
refracted exactly here
[None of this is captured on the magazine cover
only so much can be seen in pictures]
You sneaky bastard.
I knew you were there
felt you behind my closed lids (always)
slinging your weight at the ends of my hair,
but I thought
with my eye on you
I’d catch you before you pounced.
Yet here I am,
reduced to fetal leavings
and you drooling over me
through a smile that stretches for hours.
All I want is endless darkness
a silent forever
to think
‘it’s going to be alright’
but believe it.
The sound of warm water embraced reaching a crescendo of steam above the still surface.
The walls here are illusory
a stonework reminder of
(our options)
though stone can be broken
walls overcome
Often the only wall is
(you)
Your will
your means
your knowledge.
Here
it is time that binds us
the immutable agony
running headlong towards us
to keep us from getting out.
Every year conquered
leaves the others more pronounced
those walls
(these walls)
are real.
The snow finds a valley
where a swing hangs above;
an empty cradle.
Where the children are gone
the wind will play
rocking it back and forth,
Somewhere
a lullaby goes unheard.
Confronted,
I want terribly to fill that space
but a wrongness holds me down.
I don’t belong here,
not anymore.
Probability
speculative existence
forces always pushing
Grow Gray With Me 