Gone is the white wind,
my homeland, the beautiful.
Lost is the steady
smooth hue
of my hands.
I am smothered, adrift
on this violent black sea--
so easily unmade of me.

We are worlds bent backwards,
made of unknowable oceans--
I've been shattered, refracted
and thrown by the notion
that perhaps hope is nothing,
like a curse from this sea--
I am cracked,
I am flawed,
I am free.

**


we are shards of ourselves,
splintered wood, contradictions,
unnamed places;
dark inertia,
confident ignorance
and the illusion
of peace.

I am well practiced;
with a laughing smile, straining
every second
happy happy
no
I had only one genuine summer
and now I am back
to shows.

I'll do cartwheels and flips;
make rainbows and bridges
skyscrapers
all for the sake of hiding.

I am a hole.

I am a hell
I have always known.




**

I thought maybe
if I valued every second, every memory,
if I said thank you every day
and prayed and bowed
to all this world gave me,
I thought maybe
love would keep you
for me, thought maybe
I could grow old with you
and knowing only half of myself
would be okay, like maybe
if I could cling tight enough,
prove that I take nothing for granted,
that I value love above all else
and I would never waste it, and share it freely
that maybe
life, or good karma, or something
would stop this. You know, maybe
if I racked up enough points
I could cheat, avoid life, avoid another hole
because that's all I am
holes
which I have tried to climb from
since a child -- dear god, was I ever a child?
I will always be terrified--
I am cropped of myself, stolen
and drained, sold
as a porcelain doll, empty
so I am, so I will never know,
so I will always be
unknown.

Poems from the Ocean

Went camping for a few days on the beach. Came up with these poems while staring out to sea. Enjoy!

The Watcher

Between every grain of sand
the watcher sits,
counting many things
and carefully dividing them into
countless pieces,
creating of itself
a thing unnamed, a division
of one into many.
It divides
that it may create, and as its creation
makes of itself a precious thing,
a thing so valued
for one day, it shall end.

The watcher made an ocean
to teach us of a wave.
It made many collections,
circles, spirals, stars,
things of no number
to remind us that we all are countless,
and we all are counted,
and we all
are the counters
of things.


On Love

Shall I make of myself a fool for love?
Drown myself in it, a child spoiled by my years--
or shall I chase it own, a fox after the morning dove,
or relent, have it tame my will, instill such fears
as loneliness, or disregarded dreams--
I shall cleave myself of love! Fling it to the ground, retreat
to way of solitude, they themselves asleep, adream--
and I myself awake -- and in so waking, seem
in love of all, yet I am in love with none,
my heart promised to this world long ago,
and so, as promised, gone.

Love is not my master, yet neither am I tamed
by its pleasure, or the scarring of its flame.


Ocean Poem

The ocean, running into the sky
solid, like a land of lead;
I must shut out all the voices,
can't they leave me to the wind?
liberate my ear, as my ear, to listening, lends--
I would steal another minute,
one more wave to breach my soul,
give me silence, sense of purpose,
let me listen to that pull--
the rhythmic rushing of the future,
tangled currents of the past;
perhaps I'll be the ocean's lover
and be buried in the sand.

It was this ocean that taught me how to pray;
now I bend and bow to every wave.

I shall play...

I shall speak of the joy
that you are.

Like a thousand suns
burning
in my chest.

Like a thousand voices
singing
in my ear.

Like a thousand lips
pressing
to my heart.

Like a thousand eyes
seeing
through my soul.

I shall express
only the deepest
satisfaction.

Give me the burdens
of your song.

I shall play.

I shall play.

I shall play.

The last leaf of Autumn...

I suppose I shall always be
the last leaf of Autumn.

I shall always be
a stubborn rose
of Winter.

I will always be the first rain
of Summer,

a rainbow

just a little too late for Spring.

On Rocks

I thought I told you
that all rocks
are skeleton proteins
that somehow form our heart.

But if the world were trying
to tell us that we were
nothing but rocks,
I would ask
does a rock cry--

and does a rock
sing;
does a rock
hold its breath
in the dark,
does a rock
lean down
to water flowers,

does a rock rely
on its mother,
does a rock
copy its father,
does a rock
stretch back
in the dirt
and wonder
what is
a
rock?

Here I thought we would stand
as statues.

Here I thought our love was
a rock.

I looked at you like
a mountain.

Then we turned to stone.

My Last Gold Coin

Knowing that you are my last gold coin,
I would never spend you,
I would never waste you
on trinkets, or throw you
to a beggar's cup.
I would keep you close to me at all times
and wear you proudly,
knowing that you are all that stands
between me and nothing; knowing
that this is a richness that the wealthy
could never feel. And if we were
forced apart, it would only be on
my life alone, and even then, I might
die first before trading you, because
you are worth so much more to me
saved.