far off, in a lick of a breeze

I had a feeling, a lick of breeze:
She would see me sleeping,
She would hear me weeping,
Far off, in a lick of a breeze.

but air drifts tighter my window, yes

of motion
side, wind, side
tell us no
handsome ghosts
hands on males
age of doing
south with note
use a napkin
be proud
carriage pulling dog
apocalypse
past hard screens
but air drifts tighter my window, yes
painful dust
ashes
contents
second last
trick gone
steep tomorrow
one perstep a’night

Sidewalks

I’ve seen them passing there,
walking as if they’re ghosts.
Arid thoughts in fertile air,
but who’m I to say so?
 
Their looks I sometimes snatch
to pause them in their passing.
In my eyes some life to catch,
but ghosts have no use stopping.
 
Might the ghosts be brought to living
if my stares were made of death?
For in what heaven would they be drifting
when their end they’ve already met?
 
I find my ghost in wond’ring
on life, those moments past,
for my ghost is always foll’wing
and I’ll never know how fast.
 
Still, my life is made of living,
ghost-like in white lies,
blessed for not forgetting
the heaven before my eyes.

Disorder

"In pure disorder
a unique set of natural laws
would exist.

Chaos — present
with order
only then exists."

Our state of being
is made of
this truth.

Our complicated nature
provides us
with choice:

Will you live
not knowing,
or a part of it?

SILENCE, TOO

Silence, too, is a ghost.
Beyond feral dream,
shadowed, lost yet fire.
We part, in black cattle.
For up, and over, our loins
a peak, nor summit,
with ice-land-echo.
Harvest. Harvest. Harvest.

THE SACRIFICE OF THE POET

“The poet judges not as a judge judges but as the sun falling around a helpless thing.” - Walt Whitman

It is my right to sit and write,
as a poet it is my duty, just so.

Silly, you know?
To try and write on a subject...
The second you start it becomes flawed.

I try and turn my poetic grips to something worth caring about
but the topic is a mist by the time I touch the fingers to the keys.
I would love to write about history, the human condition
perhaps a few lines on the evolution of caves & tents.

Is it the idea that stops these urges?
An internal resistance easily overcome by determination?
No. I cannot believe it so. [insert some weird metaphor]

I would like to sit and write an American poem.
An homage to the culture that could very well be dying,
failing to keep up with the heartbeat of technology,
but I am here, lost again, at the mercy of my forcing.

How can one break from resistance, or faulty reasoning?
By writing about it of course.
This is my main goal it seems, because I have simply written.

I have never wanted to write this poem,
or anyone like it for that matter
it seems self indulgent and non-artistic.
Seems bare boned? Ragged,
lost in a completely aware mind of the words on the page.

Hard to write on transcendence, too.
I feel like a wet dog in the hand of Angels, I guess.
But, it is a topic that I cannot carry on without,
for if there is one thing worth reflecting
[using the ability to reflect upon things]
it is the importance of the spirit in a writer.
For without the muse, the calling, a belief
I might not have ever begun to write.

I speak easy to muses and hearts,
for it is in these that my poetic chops flourish.
They are able to articulate the inabilities, _________.

That is why they are special.
That is where the American poet lays,
through the history of my ideas,
and the feeling they have led me to feel.
Towards the analysis of the human experience,
my contribution to it, and the likeliness you might read it.

Here and forever after a poet is left with one poem less to write.
It is easy to find that feeling here at the end,
just as easy as it was to sit and start to write,

[the intention of avoiding an orphan line]
with no intention, a loss of dignity, and the sacrifice of the poet.