it is a quiet night.
everything is ok.
but not in the mind,
like two uneven bricks in the wall
waiting to bring the house down.
this too will pass and someday
there will be flowers and green grass and
a warm glowing sun
the sun will stay up and the nights
will become easier.
the hope is there and believe me,
I'm working on it but sometimes the nights engulf
and eclipse and swallow me until
I can not move or think,
or think to care.
not caring is easiest.
it's the greatest truth and universal surrender
when
nothing moves you.
there's no more to cry for when
acceptance is truth.
what comes to pass often leaves scars
but scars
are seldom beautiful.
they are the reminders of bad verse,
bad love. experience.
and though I would like to
end this poem,
I would rather lay down,
close my eyes and try to think of nothing more
but endless space.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Saturday, May 12, 2012
jump
jumping from the golden gate
is the best way to go.
you only feel pain
for a moment
and you're gone.
climbing over the railing
as you sit down
next to the ledge,
next to the lamp posts.
lamp post #69,
closest to the center.
I used to think,
the only thing to save me from
myself would be to love
or to be loved.
but maybe there is a light of chance
somewhere,
a running light through the fog.
but no. there isn't.
we have walked along the train-tracks of
hope but never held the dream,
or we had the dream but
had it taken away.
and what has come and gone,
is often irreplaceable.
riding the same trolley
becomes tiresome
like the faces of old liquor store
owners.
it becomes chipped yellow paint inside clinics
or driving with a broken tail-light.
it turns into climbing
over the railing of the golden gate bridge
and watching the
grey water swishing
like some big laundry machine.
from the womb to lamp post #69
what a lovely way to go
is the best way to go.
you only feel pain
for a moment
and you're gone.
climbing over the railing
as you sit down
next to the ledge,
next to the lamp posts.
lamp post #69,
closest to the center.
I used to think,
the only thing to save me from
myself would be to love
or to be loved.
but maybe there is a light of chance
somewhere,
a running light through the fog.
but no. there isn't.
we have walked along the train-tracks of
hope but never held the dream,
or we had the dream but
had it taken away.
and what has come and gone,
is often irreplaceable.
riding the same trolley
becomes tiresome
like the faces of old liquor store
owners.
it becomes chipped yellow paint inside clinics
or driving with a broken tail-light.
it turns into climbing
over the railing of the golden gate bridge
and watching the
grey water swishing
like some big laundry machine.
from the womb to lamp post #69
what a lovely way to go
Friday, May 11, 2012
notes on going
everything has edges.
we've been cut open across
the gut.
the pieces of shattered glass
like dandelions
fluttering in the green wind.
this is what it is like to be
turning into the big
TWO FIVE
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