Every morning I wake up to the sound of the ocean
but it’s not the real ocean
just some processed sound that some company
has managed to package into their
little white boxes of time

There is still time to change, they say,
there is always time,
but how do you know, when the clock is always
ticking ticking ticking
and stars burn explode
or shrink
and disappear overhead
one
by one

What are bodies but crusty old shells,
time capsules with an expiration date
already set,
soul enclosed?
What is a mind that can’t sleep,
tossed from port to port
like a wave-battered vessel
never truly making headway against the storm?

Alone in the vacuum we strive
ribs heart lungs
ribs the cage
lungs the nebulae—
life sprung forth
from such gaseous beginning

but there is no cage at the edge
of space
of time
that we know of

we only constrict ourselves

Oh, we were born to endless night:
my nocturne eyes seek what is beyond
the scenes of mortal life.
Candles bring discomfort to those of us
who have grown accustomed to the stars,
and when it comes to subtle blows
there is no beginning, there is no finale,
only explosions in star space and
destruction and collapsing inward on
oneself until there is nothing
but a memory,
a star still faintly glowing somewhere
beyond the sun that never shines
for us.

Oh, what a frightful star that gleams tonight—
Frightful for the shine that brightens your eyes,
Frightful for the shadows creeping up right
Behind to wrestle with our soft goodbyes;
We were not designed to live in such times
As these when the wilderness retreats and
In the hearts of men rest ignoble crimes;
We were made for forest walks, hand in hand,
For Albion or Avalon, apple-
Drenched and perfect. But we are not perfect,
Even with nature as our green chapel.
All of us are blessed with some great defect,
And to know this is to know all things.
Cage not the lonely creature that still sings.

Though leaves are turning red above our crowns
And winter’s gloom is creeping softly, dim
Upon the breeze that blows such autumn sounds
Winging off from each aged and dying limb,
My time is not to be spent here again
For I have felt a stirring in my soul,
And like the fluttering heart of the wren
My feet are ready to flit and to roll
Along the riverbank that leads to home.
What if another river or abode
Should claim these feet before they sink in loam
Of the ancient and starstruck river roads?
Such wanderers must be at peace despite
The solemnity of the darkest night.

O son of Iapetus,
king of that fair island far,
What would you do if the stars went out tonight?
A hundred thousand million billion candles,
all extinguished with a puff of air from our mouths?
We breathe, and Sirius closes his eye,
Pegasus wings away through the sky and
Orion’s belt drops, flashing us all.

I would tumble as the meteors fall,
but would you hold my hand and dance?
We should be solemn, that our lungs could house such power.
The entire universe we put to rest:
kiss my neck and see Betelgeuse frown;
other stars simmer themselves down to blackness,
nothingness eternal.
Then take me to Atlantis.

I long to hear the water slosh
against the terraces and parapets.
This was our choice, to rebel;
we painted a separate sky so that the world might know us,
the bearer of the world and the queen of the night, with
constellations like freckles on your back
and serpents in your mind,
and no safe port of call in this ebony sea.

This is the holy city of proselytizing poets and prophets—
“What’s the book you got there? What’s it about? Did you like it?”
This is the city of holy madmen and wordsmiths—
“My name is Jim, I write poetry, d’you like poetry? I also go by James Wordsworth, you
can look me up, I have a website full of poetry, do you read my poetry?”

In this holy city, saints drink sweet tea on Sunday and sinners keep shop.
In this city, dreams sulk in the sun between sidewalk and steeple,
and sweat slips down brows black and white too quickly to be patted away discretely.
The trembling ocean is but a mile away by bus, further by foot, and furthest by mind,
so many obstacles are there in this sanctioned city of sermon and swelter.

So I do not know your name, I do not read your poetry (in all honesty, I had forgotten till now,
as we met but in passing and you spoke softly).
I did not like this book, but thank you for asking, you faceless city talker and sidewalk-street
walker—
I would read your poetry now if I could, to escape, but would I escape, really?
Or would I feel the same—
just the same as I always have in this city by the sea, folded between two rivers,
nearly swallowed all the time in all the rain that heaven sends our way?
I will never know you so I must
imagine my way through life alone.

“and stars burn explode

or shrink
and disappear
one
by one
alone in the vacuum
ribs heart lungs
ribs the cage
lungs the nebulae-
life sprung forth
from gaseous beginning

there is no cage at the edge
of space
of time
that we know of

we only constrict ourselves”

Big and Small went walking down the street of a city that was not home one overcast day, Small with her flushed and rounded cheeks of youth and Big with his big hands and bigger nose, and together with their eyes and their rhythm and their groove in this city they knew they did not know. They jived around puddles and danced under awnings as the sky opened buckets upon them, and yet they relished the freedom of a heavy sky, for the rain meant they would be alone on the streets today and those streets would be open and receptive to their advances so long as big hand held small, small hand held big.

Small stopped to point and coo at a passing mule, a lonely, miserable soul in the rain, then pulled her skirt up to look at her shoes which were dewy wet in the gray morning before scrambling off again up the sidewalk with her eyes alight and glowing. She had Big’s eyes but not his hair for she had no one’s hair though no one’s hair was beautiful to Big but he hardly had time to think so because together they hurried off again at the frenetic pace of a child swimming in explorer’s shoes.

Staring in at gleaming, gilded chairs and velvet duvets over ruby silk sheets, antique clocks and ivory statues, their breaths condensing upon the rain-spattered glass, the two of them, Big and Small, laughed their way up Royal, down Bienville, and ducked into galleries for a taste of culture and an education for Small whose eyes gleamed like puddles reflecting off the pavement of a city equally worn and not worn enough, except on Fat Tuesday when not much was worn at all except for glittering beads and feathers and beer.

Inks and oils, pungent as yesterday’s news and waste strewn about the nearest saturated corner yet infinitely more alluring to the distinguished nostril, overwhelmed poor Small as she inhaled deeply the fragrances that permeated the shops she and Big slogged into whenever the rain got to be too much. Here was art. Here was desire. Vision. That which had once been blank had come alive, like the skies in a storm, and like lightning It struck her, this art, this vision, this desire, though she did not shrink away from It all like Big had hoped, expected, even. She was drawn to that world and it chilled him like ice, or it could have been the rainwater collecting on his shoulders. He shrugged and followed her about the galleries for a time, but at a distance, tracking just close enough to catch a finger that strayed too close, a nose that nearly painted itself, a wisp of hair caught neatly between two full, rosy lips.

So enthralled was Small with The Art that she did not notice Big step outside again under the brightly patterned awning which was suddenly muted in the under-saturated air, and he stood there waiting, old, glancing uneasily up and down the street again as little puddles turned to little ponds and little ponds to little streams down the gray crevices of the sidewalk, like little tears down the gray crevices of his brain.

Small emerged some moments later, though the span felt like half a lifetime, and she appeared to him too brilliant to touch, too brilliant to contain, too resilient to mold again into the young Small he had always known as his. He grasped for her suddenly then, under the awning, to be sure she was real, and she almost slipped on a slick bit of concrete but she laughed and the laugh went down instead of up and that puzzled him then troubled him, and instead of coos she talked back and they walked on down the road in Big silence and Small talk.

The rain had not stopped, and little streams trickled into little rivers so they hurried now, Big and Small, down the streets of the city they did not know. They walked past Bourbon and Big tried to hurry by but Small dragged her feet and looked anyway. A man with no hat and a funny beard tried to stop them but Big said “No thanks” and looked straight ahead. Small burned. Bicycles swept past and Big tried to lift Small out of range of the splashes that burst from the wheels but she was too big and her mouth was too open and a bit of the ancient city grime was swept into her mouth along with the rain and the tears. The rain lamented youth, and innocence, and also on that day the inevitable loss of both, even as big hand held small, small hand held big, and Big tried to laugh now, only it was too low and Small was still scared of the funny man with no hat and a beard so she stopped talking and tried to coo only her coo was broken.

So it was a glum day after all, and the two of them surged together back up the floodwaters of the road to home, to life, but neither were quite so familiar as they once had been, and certainly Small and Big had changed in small ways, too, that would someday add up to very big but also very sad ways. There would not always be a Big, nor would there always be a Small, but Big hoped that Small would always be his, and he also hoped that as long as he lived there would always be a Small around with him.

As the last broad rays of sun filter through ash and larch and pine,
The world stills, and there is a moment’s perfect clarity
For all senses of all beings and all nations.

Those of great stature are the first to feel its slow descent:
Those last light fingers stall across branch and bough as they trickle downward fleetingly,
And as night once more envelops the world, the tallest stand just as they are—forever reaching towards something of which they know not exactly what,
But hear-tell is just enough to pique curiosity, and It is enough to elude them perpetually.
I can see their folly, but I say nothing.

I note that they who are illuminated last in-between long umber shadows,
They who are hugging so close to the ground when the sun finally sinks beneath the Earth’s rounded curves,
They are the lowly ants and hapless beetles, the tireless workers of the miniature,
And at times I fear I am the only one amongst leaders, dictators and presidents,
Scientists, physicians, astronomers,
To see them.

Between dreamers and doers poets often dwell.
Ours is an occupation of time, thought, rhyme,
Ours is an era of boundless ends,
Ours is an essence of musk and cedar and air crisp and clear,
Because we out of all breathe it to our very core.

There is a cool breeze that blows tonight;
It fumbles with clouds and sends them across the map of the moon,
But there is tranquility still if you know—as I know—where it is you must look to find it.

maybe it’s the rosemary you’re crushing now between your fingertips, its aroma distinctly woody, spicy, your childhood the plant shook when you plucked its leaves, and beads of rain pattered to the ground having been dislodged from their nightly roost pitter patter and breathe in and calm calm beneath a pillowed grey sky ducking away from the light one is still able to have a moment’s reflection among the herbs

and now, lavender, soothing into sleep, though the rosemary still flutters ahead, drink it in and be calmed

as you can see, writing has lulled.

I am still writing, just not…every…single…day. It is quite refreshing.

and let’s just face it, I’m a quitter. QUITTER, YEAH!! I realistically cannot make myself do something I don’t want to do, and urging myself to write every day for the sake of a whimsical (though fulfilling) project was becoming increasingly difficult, not to mention emotionally draining.

I need to edit. I need to go back and edit and rework the words until they fit just right and roll off the tongue at just the right speed and the ‘1 piece a day’ thing was really killing my process, because once I closed that notebook for the day those words were set. it also didn’t help that when I closed that notebook it was usually the next day because I tend to consistently settle down with a pen and paper around 1 am.

So really the point of this is to say I’ve finally gotten around to posting the last few days (THAT THAR’S QUALITY RIGHT THAR) and while I’m saddened that I couldn’t make it to at least 100 my sanity was kind of important to me at the time and I didn’t feel like sacrificing it for what were only going to be crummy haikus and nonsensical babble KIND OF LIKE THIS RIGHT NOW.

will spam here sporadically when I have things I feel are worth sharing. CHEERS.

To
open-ended questions
Based in fact and
ephemeral dreams and
Floating schemes of wishes,
real, and
eventually concrete
even in flight

“You. Me,” she waved a hand around emphatically. “This.” Us. “We need to get it over with. Don’t you think?” The smile she smiled then was a calculated strike against him and it hit squarely in the gut.

“Well… sure. Yes. Yes.” He took a step forward, almost eagerly.

“It’s for the best, if we’re going to keep this business going.”

“Yes,” he murmured, licking his lips absent-mindedly. “Yes…”

A pleasant stroll through the pines on a non-eventful morn
Treading lightly on the needles on a pathway lightly worn

scarabs and tarots

of turquoise and goldenrod

singing our hearts out.