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Empty Space


a spherical planet
in empty space
light fragments of energy
bounce from object to object
all the same
a trampoline warps and bends
as the fat kid jumps
causing the smaller objects
to detour their paths
circling the sun
circling the pretty girl on the trampoline
everyone pretending they don’t care
when everyone there
wishes they had the guts
to talk to the girl
and talk to the sun
and ask why they care
about the girl
and about the sun
energy particles dance through the window
and shine light on the girl’s face
i lie with her
and with the sun
on a spherical planet
in empty space


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Using some worn out metaphor
to look into the deep dark dead sea
brings to mind a chirping red bird
on a windowsill
whistling painful pictures of worn out
and tired faces; wrinkled old faces
that all look like the red bird and are all tired.
They bring to its eyes tears of beauty;
it hurts to speak and listen.
The red bird sings up a well-known mountain
where old cigarette butts and cheap
empty wine bottles are littered.
It’s thirsty but the bottles are dry;
those good speakers of before stayed thirsty.
They are silent now, and the red bird is young.
But it is tired; all it sees is that the trek is long.
The mountainous path is filled with pains
and vices are littered around its pursuit.
The lonely mountain air
calls out to the searching eyes
in each town and square and market,
slowly creating creases in their features;
creeping toward being old and tired;
creeping toward the sea while falling in love—
some sort of form that has meaning.
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Beauty originated the desire to interpret.
Looking forward to the past,
life arises from a narrative, like a body crucified
for the sole purpose of returning.

Every tragedy births a fetishized story
crying to be interpreted;
holes in hands prevent the grasp of life
outside of its communication.

Mathematics is the new angel
of the old western world;
its mythos cloaked in the belief of logic,
feeding humanity's continuing search.
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A Day’s Journey

The night sails a ship
in the sky of long-travelled dreams
that the Gods of time recite
in star-riddled patterns and themes.

The day has eyes that look
at a wild youth, where night
is of no interest to their immortal
and yet unknown souls.

The mornings are dark,
where eyes are sealed shut
and cocoons hurt in the process
of ridding their burden.

The sun is forever out of reach—
both of its two-flavored horizons.
A divergence exists at the turn
of the latter sequence.

It reflects a desire to fight
against the consistency of the night—
end’s destination on a day’s journey
filled full of light.

The night is good, and the night is sad.
It plays riddles in the sun’s sequence
of the second half.
How known it is that the night is cruel.

At this split of no return, one asks
if day’s past was all of the path.
Moving toward night’s mired stars,
I look to the sun and love this path.
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Life Read Backward

Is all one is read backward?
Pantomime the gesture of a setting sun
while touching the tear from a lover’s eye.
Trek to the top of the hill
to find it was never a place at all,
other than to enjoy
Hebe’s eternally youthful soul.

Laissez faire in the heated summer sun.
Watch leaves turn strange colors
with the coming of fall.
Wear a sweater that covers the winter breeze
and call to a woman, perhaps a wife.

To school before dawn and work until night;
good occasion with friends
between times of fright.
Perhaps a hobby to pass the time; false interest
in promises from politicians who lie.

Think of your own death
and witness a family member's come too soon.
Learn and realize how unlearned you are still.
Perhaps these are some of the things of life.
Backward read is one all is.