I assumed clean
was a matter of aesthetic,
as in: what’s the difference
between the appearance
and the preservation,
where in that
discombobulation do we
find space to adjust,
how do we maintain it
when there’s constant
even slight winds?
The sun was visiting
splendor, telling tall tales
about the beauty
of living out-of-doors.
The days spoke in trees.
Gigantic dream sands
had been shifted
to make a plain
where we could grow
until our bodies
and their symbols
were one and the same thing.
But sands may decide
to shift for themselves
at any time.
Sands might dream, too,
of igniting the benign
symbology of a dune
that renews itself
as a matter of fact —
maybe what’s more
pristine is deliberately
throwing our white shirts
onto the beach and
carrying dirt home
to marvel at what could
appear in the etchings
of a stain.
I was talking to David,
and if love revealed itself
while we were building
a scaffold around
I don’t think the sun
would be as wrenching
when it went down.
All our wishes made us thirsty,
ready to risk the rain in an already
drenched summer and we’re distracted
by radicals: minutes incessantly reminding
us that we’re at the edge of where we can
still measure the increments of desire.
We welcome the morning informally,
thrilled to find ourselves: two halves
close to being reversed, leaving other
broken states in a house of ecstasy.
To enjoy yourself is to reveal yourself
as a heartbreak of irises
or the petals of a bomb.
To describe is to measure
the difference between
what we are and what we expect
to be: if seed,
then the boom; if petal,
then the plume; if blink,
I blink and see the edge
of blood accelerate through
the window, if heart pounding,
then the room is empty
and you can see it clearly —
the heart is a bomb shoved
into a glass show and brought
to the party as our getaway plan.
To wake in full face of a mouth gaping
on giant yawn, teeth raw like Sunday’s ache
and glacial morning breath, to be unseen
in a land of mirrored sky, I do not think
it was a great idea to get so high
last night, man, but shit, you see that bird?
I think it was an eagle, osprey, some prey
bird! Bugs, man, everywhere, you kill em good
though! Let’s climb to the top of that mountain
to find where purple turns to blue and shits
beautiful on everyone. I got
the beers, you got the snacks? Ready to go,
wait, fuck, headache, let’s have our coffee first.
Written during a Brooklyn Poets Yawp event, based on the prompt of writing about a beautiful experience in plain language in iambic pentameter. Or something like that.
Cross the wilderness, nail it down,
it’s impossible to tell from the picture
whether it’s true or false - that’s how
I hate to begin, plagued by uncertainty
and devouring space with faulty
mathematics of fate. Running away
from this, everything, is the same
as running away from nothing.
Most stories begin in finding meaning
in meaningless things, and I don’t want
hurt what I love or care about
so let’s make a case for the hammer.