I plant pomegrantes in my heart,
and feed them with love.

Queen of death,
Daughter of life,
may flowers bloom beneath your feet,
and wither as you pass.

I pray of thee Persephone,
grant to me thy wisdom
and thy grace between the places.

Let me follow your blooded footsteps,
and know the way home again.

Liquid flowing through
pipes and tubes
towards a treatment plant

“I wash my hands of it”
But the cleansing water comes
back around

and it never stays washed away.
The dirt always gets under your nails
no matter what.

The sky is an unreceptive screen,
full of potential and promise,
with no manifestation of a dream.

Pull up the anchor.
Sail across the sky,
let your sail catch some snow,
and your rudder cut the clouds.

Starlight in the snow.
An inky rut.
And some snow.

Longing

My life is a book.
Its pages written in scribbles and scrawls,
adventures and doldrums.

A page is written and then turned.
I do not look back,
the words from yesterday
can only moisten my eyes.

His eyes
dancing as I blush. A smile.
A touch. A presence.
Ink smudges on my fingers
as I hurriedly record these
experiences.

Pages turn, a teardrop
marring the words.

His eyes
hooded as he looks away.
A longing pulls me to him,
but never a touch.

Paper cuts and blood,
fresh ink on pages.
Images, in alphabetic
resonance.

Beauty is terrible,
a destroyer in its purpose.
Simple elegance,
delicate words on a page,
written in a shaking scrawl,
on a final page.

And for anyone who doesn’t think that’s suicidal enough, here’s one from a few years ago. The love in this one is rather implicit…

Upon the Edge of a Broken Glass

Tumbling edges of glass
Flashing in the light
Sending shimmers of
Refraction through
The air.

Shattered crystal,
Sparks of fire
Float in existence,
As shards of silver light
Scatter along the floor.

Dancing with death.
Fingers playing along
The razor edges,
Sliding with sickening
Intent, waiting.

Phosphorescent images
Play in the air,
Quiet sounds delight,
Harmonize, with
Silent reckoning.

Depression and darkness
Ensue, the silent tears
Of endgame.
Balanced on cutting edges.
Stumbling blindly along.

Droplets of warm red
Moisture, become streams
Of life’s essence, sticky
Heat coating
Flesh, in wasting sensation

Precariously perched
Upon the tight wire of
Cold sharp edges, I lose my
Footing, and tumble
Into oblivion.

What is true, core,
is the mind alone. Our birth
and death. Our loves and lives.
these are maya.

Today has been a day of quiet. I did laundry and watched charmed. John and George are in the kitchen making a stew and mulled wine. Elizabeth is at Jewel, bless her heart. It takes a lot of stones to leave in this weather.

I’m working very hard to become a competent web developer, and after months of tinkering I’m finally beginning to have some success with it. There are so many moving parts, it’s just so hard to get a handle on all of it.

On  another new front, I’m going to add my latest tweets to the sidebar. Very exciting.

And now, a poem.

Who are you that wishes me gone?
Who are you that hungers for love?
Who are you, the truth, the light, the flame?
Who are you who sings his songs and writes his stories?
What muse or god has gifted you, and from where have you come?
Why visit when the world is wrapped in stillness and the night so cold?
How hungry is my heart that I would embrace you, shadow-lover?

Nay! Not this night fond dreamer. Nor the next.
Your dreams are filled with me, but mine are still of sight.

I honor the life that you live,
and each moment of your glory.
I honor your strength and sincerity,
and each wound you suffer wounds me.

I love you,
and will never leave, though you may
push me away in anger.

I love you,
though you may not wish my hands or hug,
and may turn on me today.

I love you,
quietly, in the darkness where
nobody can see.

I love you,
loudly, against the naysayers and
doom-sayers and hatred.

I love you,
In your sorrow and suffering,
and In your joy and celebration.

I love you,
I will not turn away from you.
I will face you, armed only with my love.
I will honor you, bare chested, with open heart.
I will counter you, and provide the foil you need,
though it wounds me.
I will touch you, though my hand may be burned.
I will love you, even in the long night,
when we cry and suffer.

I love you.

And I’m typing.
I’m typing words that feel
…….like they don’t really mean anything,
and yet they must mean something.

11:11 pm:

And I’m still typing.
Staring at the screen blankly
…….waiting for things to make sense to me,
and yet I don’t sense epiphany on the horizon.

11:12 pm:

And I’m listening.
Typing quietly as I listen to
…….Lady Vagabond, sung in proud-voiced fire,
and yet there is still this silence beneath me.

11:13 pm:

And I’m closing my eyes.
Thinking of deleting the green
…….characters that have moved across the screen,
and yet I continue typing.

11:14 pm:
And I’m feeling so alone.
I smile, because I always write
…….bad poetry when I’m feeling alone like this,
and yet I still feel alone.

11:15 pm:
And I’m going to jerk off now.
I smile, wanly, I’ll probably just go to
…….sleep instead, jerking off holds no draw tonight,
and yet It might make me feel.

Oh mysteries, the challenges that we find seeping through the darkness of our world, only hinted at the the shadows you cast. Yes you too have shadows. Shadows that are dark and terrifying. Shadows that cast into darkness the beauty of those nomadic souls as each dark phase passes across the sky. The demons hunt in that darkness, and your own fiery strikes can not hunt them down, for they are too quick and fierce.

No, your shadows are not things of ferocity. They are not enemies or demons to do combat with, but insidious serpents who slither in between the moments of brightness. No, your instants of attention can not banish these unconquered foes, and so they will haunt you, stalking your every moment with a patience you do not wish to posses. They wait to strike and do so, pushing you out of orbit as if it was merely the gravity of a nearby star that has drawn you. And so you journey in a new direction, always wondering what would have come of the strand of fire you were following moments ago, years ago, ages ago.

You must discipline yourself to patience oh child of the stars, whose icy tail reaches behind you as a shining legacy of your presence, affecting all around you. Your icy memories are refracting glimmers of your fire, but that prismatic glory is so faint compared to the light your nomads beg to see of you. Their souls are caught in your wake, and they gather each sparkle of light to themselves, precious as the very breath which gives them life; and yet they yearn for more. But your shadows hunt them, and they huddle around the fires they can conjure from what you do give, praying that the flames they harbor will be enough to protect them from what stalks their night.

You must discipline yourself to patience, my streaking ball of ice; you must learn to out wait your shadows. You must deny their force until it is they, and not you who lacks the patience to endure the course. You must be still and silent until your shadows attempt to force you to move again, because then their clever hands will not go un-noticed, and you might conquer them each in turn.

You must discipline yourself to patience, as even the day-star has found his place of stillness and nurtured life. You can not create from ever-present motion, but only from the quiet of the void. The wanderers who stalk your tail, yearning ever more deeply for the warmth of your own starlight, and yet you run always in motion, giving them the barest touch of your love, enough so that they will follow you always, but never enough that they might truly live. And you look behind you, gazing upon the magnificence of your trail, and the number of your followers and you rejoice in their love of you, never knowing that their patience is growing short.

You must discipline yourself to patience oh celestial being of the ancient music of the spheres of the void and cauldron. You must quiet your expansion and forgo your motion. You must stop seeking for the sake of seeking; and gather your glorious tail to yourself in the stillness of space; and you must wait until waiting is filled and the fire blossoms in your heart in earnest, filling you with the love of your nomads that you can no longer deny.

Then star child, only then, will you find the peace you don’t know you are seeking. Sit quietly. Do not sing your music merely to admire it, but where it will be heard, and where the hearing of it will be purposeful and creative. Sit quietly, and listen to the spheres that sing around you. Understand their song. Understand how your melody and harmony can complement those spheres. Sit quietly, and keep sitting until you understand patience. When you understand patience, you will no longer need to sing, because your song will be called forth from you by the very stillness you have been seeking to know. In this, is the key to your wisdom.

There is a stirring as I rise, and all
seems as it should be, but there is a stirring inside.

A quietude of force, a seed,
roots now wrapping around my spine,
rising like the serpent with a magnitude I do not grasp.

The mirror smiles at me, and though I look
like shit, there is peace.

I commute, and somewhere in the between-ness,
There is a stillness, a clarity, that I am Free.
Free of what? Free of whom? Free.

Libera me, de eterna morte, vita en eterna morte.

I don’t know what it means yet, but for once
I feel free.

your poem is shitty
haiku hates your emo poem
refrigerator

This happened because we were sitting around the other night, goofing off after a yummy stew made by George. Somehow we started talking about emo people, and then all of a sudden Elizabeth says ‘Haiku Hates your Emo Poem’

Of course, I said, ‘Wait, that’s not a haiku!” and then, after a discussion in which we determined that a Haiku is 5-7-5, and a few minutes of laughing, we have the anti-emo haiku you see above.