This social life.
All the tiny, fractionate bits.
The roles to play.
Promises to keep on others’ behalf.
Play the social game.
We are in our twenties and
must finally mature, save
for the exceptions to rules;
canes and wheelchairs
feel they can speak their minds
without consequence.
But I am incorrigible.
First cup of honey-sweetened tea.
No milk, thank-you.
Wind-infused chills compete for their life
against an English blend.
Sip and close my eyes.
Some things make this broken existence ethereal.
Through preservation of pretentious little items,
which in reality mean next to nothing,
a king of paupers claimed ownership
of sorts more valuable than all trivial earthly worlds.
Flying too close to the sun
this king of paupers melted like ice off a glacier,
falling into reality,
passing through clouds harder than stone
and slipping through to his earth as tears.
Unhurt.
“If preservation is the myth of love,
then leaving behind all I thought I’d gained
will lead to understandings pauper kings
hold more valuable than riches.”
Dandelion
in hand.
A breath
a blow,
scattering
along
hot summer
air.
Each seed a
dream,
each
mostly
nothing,
where in
a world
of circumstances
each
nothing dream
carries with
it amorous
tributaries
and scorns
like fired coal.
A breath
a blow,
empty lungs
grasp
and beg
for more.
Each breath,
hope.
A world
of circumstances.
A world
of circumstances,
curse with
exhales.
Dandelions;
what do children
understand,
that there
are many
a hot summer’s
air will
stand to
scatter.
Objectively,
would not the absence
of choice
be itself a
post-modern
virgin birth?
Candy,
unbleached flower,
could-be-fresher vegetables
juxtaposed
against shades of
colored contacts,
or
choosing
among those
cities which hold the
potential of
highest prosperity.
What does
any of it matter if
others
find themselves in
overly ornate
maybe rather
plain caskets,
both doomed
to rot
dreaming
sweeping surrealistic
dreams death
is theorized to bring.
Should a person
choose to
waste away
the night
drunken,
drugged…
…or not…
morning still comes.
What is the youthful quest -
socioeconomic well-being
or love?
Does it not matter the beggar,
the faceless of the homeless amassed
would choose anonymity if it meant
living freely unrestrained
from any and every modern curse?
If youth were
to know,
to know,
to know.
Speak, all you
variously colored truths.
If in this life just one
should be untinged
long enough from crimsons
to hear
all of the
variously colored truths,
then such should be
considered blessed.
Such are few.
To walk a thousand roads.
To meet a thousand faces.
To live a thousand lives.
To see a thousand places.
Or walk a lone dusty road.
Reading numbers off of
rusted mailboxes.
Sights and sounds an
eternity and a day away.
What is.
What may be.
What might come.
What is never seen.
Midnight again.
Pitch black and
stars above.
Tomorrow is
plenty to unlearn
what was learned.
I fell into a dream
not mine
and refused
to wake upon
the beckoning
of dawn.
Outside a
cathedral I hid
amongst the
passions and
fleeting
sensualities.
Popes and
kings still
struck me odd,
screaming
for favor from
subjects, even God.
Most peculiar are
the robin songs
somewhere above
I would choose
to forget, but they
sing loud of love,
some of friendship
but in real
Shakespearean
worlds, such
pass away.
Friend? Stranger?
I live in relativity.
In shades of quiet.
In anticipations, small.
In relations, unsure.
All else is peripheral.
So how shall I thus
speak, perhaps you
grew into an epitaph?
I don’t quite care
much. Anymore.
Closed eyes.
Goodbye.
Sleeps so soundly.
Like a saint.
Headstone
and
smell of grass.
Like a newborn.
Posterity carries
through their years
and
world decays
with entropic self-hate.
Decaying saints
held in almost
too-high esteem.
Perhaps I speak
from ignorance.
Enough of death’s
mysteries.
I prefer insincerities.
Like dancing over graves.
