Ode to Being Absorbed

I think I would like to be
part of a trunk
that extends back to three or four years ago,
or a distant past that I will
partly connect with
the next tree over,
the shingle on a dilapitated roof,
somewhere on a coastline
that I’ve never walked on.

There,
a man in a long grey overcoat
will extend his fingery hand
to hold me,
and I am met alongside a book with an unhinged spine,
floppy like the ears of a soft dog,
and grey green like moss in winter.

He has no smile,
but his eyes betray lost happiness.
There is a wilderness behind him,
but he has only ever known the ocean.

I tell him
to go back to the treeline
instead of the foam that he so adores,
but only single syllables can
exit his mouth:

yes,
left,
go,
stay,
light.

The name of the sea is petunia,
and he spells this out with me on the sand,
but says “pet”,
and so we play with her like a dog;
flickering her wave tails and trying to catch her as she grabs me,
fetches us back conches and seaweeds.

I did not dissolve again
into the tree,
but I wanted to so much.
then again—
so would the day,
and he wasn’t complaining.

Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry

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Cornucopia Family Ties

brimming white blankets and you a centerfold in it
angel,
stuck with the two axes of your arms and legs
pointing like gods own fingers towards the sun,
and the heavens,
and a cotton-candy world that was made
for you
to live in,
for planting heart shaped petal kisses
and palms of pink paint, spelling your name and
the name of a certain strain of
butterfly.
(anti social(,at times negligeble for what we’d call “ambi social))
spilled words and i’m sorries that
didn’t mean much to you,
or perhaps it was just a
missed connection through the
english channel
that made me think
you didn’t really love me anymore
and my fire was too hot,
and your fire was so small.

pro tector of all that is holy,
please be merciful (i said)
on that holy day when day is night in the
middle of the day,
and the birds stop their singing
and the crickets stop their cricketing
and money is of no value,
i seep into your translucent skin,
finding nutrients that no one could concieve of
and that minds could not listen,
forged myself into you
and my new family,
my mother (a soft-ripened peach)
my father (a tough, calloused mellon)
and you,
my brother
my yellow apple brother,
not yet browned and crisped with dewdrops.

i live while you laugh,
and this family is riddled with too many
that cover up for the sound of cries
because i was the only fruit in the basket
who didn’t like lies.

Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry

A Man As a Gun

to pester myself until I find myself,
scattered in places beyond the places,
reaching for things that I can’t
have.

upwards swinging on a downward spiral,
the edges of the minutes are my own minutes,
and though your minutes may closely match
my minutes,
they are not as heavy or as old.

I dug into skin that wasn’t there,
as renewed memories, blood rose to tops of hairs like
internal bleeding run amok,
floods of my own self and My Desires,
exeptions of gravity time space
so could fall into a perfect uncertainty,
and the old just-standing-and-existing feeling of
being able to see a person and
know that they feel nothing remotely close
to the agonies of being human:

or if they did,
marvelous as it was how they could
fit their parts of being into this nonplussed, nonevented,
nonremorse-anxiety,
to find themselves existing in a miraculous hampering,
(tho i am the one that knows how to survive,
and where to find the fire,
so i say,
in the building of you).

Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry

Something

Foreign bodies,
(yours means
something
to me
when there
a long time,
but really ornimental,
nothing).

Foreign eyes,
(only yours
im scared of
looking into
a long time,
but it’s really just optics,
nothing).

Foreign mouths,
(only yours
means something when
smiling a big smile,
but truly just
a facial organ,
nothing).

Nothing-nothing-nothing and it’s
what i’m drowning in,
like a
trapped mouse
feeding off of stale bread,
hoping to see a better day next,
as i
milk out every last drop of you that
does not and will not rest,
the fear and heartache souring your breath,
the nothing gaps that holy your chest,

so i wish up the love
and i wish up the dream
and wish it all up so it can all seem
something:

but it’s the something that does not exist
that i am in love with, o true!
as i am spinning a tall tale of pumpkins and you,
a tall tale on the edge of the conversation,
a tall tale spun from the imagination,
of crying and laughing,
of staying and dashing
of goodbye and hello
of where’d you come and where’d you go,
of what’s your name i’ll say hello
of should i be naive or should i know,
as you
understand what i’m feeling,
and then decide on responding to that by
feeling nothing:
all i ever wanted
was just a little
something
to have around.

Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry

All Hope Is Lost

All hope is lost,
My friends:

We scaled back the tower of babble,
Too many languages on the tip of my tongue to recognize
which one was of fire
And which one was ice,
And which one held the keys to the victory
So soon won,
Yet now with no more masons at their basins
Playing a game of dice.

Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry

Heaven Looks a Little Like Death to Me Sometimes

I relive life off the screen because the one I lead right now isn’t that hollywood-worthy. It’s pretty dull. (See how you like it!)

x x x x x x x x x x

What I want is the picture window picturesquely placed perfectly by the
Purple window, facing an autumnal breeze of pale lavender.
Do you see the words exiting my mouth?
Or are they just whhhhisps of air?
It’s too warm for that. The air will only crystallize when you tell it to.
Yes,
That’s the advantage
Of living on this mountaintop,
Where the seasons
Change inexplicably,
But only because you said it,
You said it so it must be so,
It must be so,
It must be so.

I ran into the little red car that you own and I took a sledgehammer and tore it apart.
Yes,
That’s what heaven looks like.

What I want is the daybreak coming up after the afternoon, not before.
And that’s too much to ask now, no
“The air and the wind and the rain and the sun were my devising,
Really only some chemicals up in the sky really only some weather manipulation—
Or am I a magician?
Don’t you love to see my face
When it smiles,
Once in a while?”

Isn’t that the same as when you opened the door,
And slammed it shut,
And left me outside,
Past freezing,
The stomping foot,
The stomping foot,
The stomping foot.

I ran into your motor vehicle that is ten days past expiring from the exhaust pipe’s
Feeble running, running running I ran into it with a sledgehammer but
That was a complication because there are ten
Motor vehicle repairmen in the greater citywide area who say they can fix it and
Have solved the problem so that it is still running.
It’s still running, huh?
Your skull looks kind of shiny.
Want me to take a swack?
That’s the heaven,
When it all fades to–

Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry

Gattlin’ Gun

After realizing I am getting ahead of myself again for the third time this year

x x x x x x x

The gattlin’ gun
Was invented to protect your young
Blood,
Flesh of your flesh,
Salt of the earth folk,
Y’understand?

The gattlin’ gun
Was invented to protect your son
Your dear thicker-than water
Son,
Settin’ on a heartless plane of Africa
Where nobody knows a goddamn thing
Least of all his name.

You should know by now
Each round they fire
Is heaven sent
Is god-inspired

You should feel by know
The fear I felt
When I took to hearing
The first plain shot
Like a plank of wood
Being struck
Inside the bones of tut
Split wide shut

Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry

Diminuto

miles and miles of green
and the monks meditate
watching the green,
the single drip from a leaky faucet
or a continuous stream of music,
sans-pause.
can we believe?
can we relate to these statues and
long dead saints that
children begged candy from
and who now rest,
unknown in their stone sets
like the cut grass on the
lawn,
each inch cut growing back
with less and less of
itself,
and how,
now,
the only way I can remember
you is how you sat on the bench
crumpling into yourself
into yourself?

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry 

A Girl That is Not Me

After Ex Machina

there is a door
and at the end of the door
you will see me,
reaching for an eternity
for a place you cannot see.

there is a floor,
and at the end of the floor
there is a cieling
reaching for a feeling
for a thought that is not me.

there is a room
and at the end of the room
you will see he
grasping for validity
for a mind you cannot see.

there is a womb
and at the end of the womb
there is a birthing
reaching for a being
grasping for a feeling
for a girl that is not me.

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry

Magical

today the wind came out to greet you
like it was saying a final goodbye
i went on a walk and i found you
for i tried and i tried and i tried.

from a distance you stood there poetic
and i watched as my heart slowed and spinned
you were standing quite still in the solitude
while i watched you, alone in the wind.

when you ran up to greet me you sparkled
like a fairy all gilded in sunlight,
your hair flew around you like fairy wings
and your balmy pink smile was as bright.

then you stood there and softly spoke poetry
an elegy made of a sigh
you delivered a sermon of pearls to me
and what humble a servant was i.

as your lips held each whispered word tightly
in caresses i never could prize
your recited words said “i’m in love with you”
then i stared, falling into your eyes:

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry