i try to be
something better than me
you might not understand
what that means.
i want to be
traveling through the sky
touching the stars
can you see it?
can you feel it?
do you know it?
I want to be better than me.
Blog
The River
-Don’t over-compensate.
My friend advised me,
over and over again.
Did I listen? I guess;
because, I didn’t go a ground.
I navigated myself through the river,
one hand on the stainless steel wheel
and the other holding the Binoculars
to my squinting hazel nut eyes
trying to spot the next maker
be it green or red, flashing or not.
The fish and dolphins observed with sarcastic eyes
as they dodged the bow of the boat.
The bottom of the river rose
threatening
six feet, five feet, four feet
and then went back down.
I became the boat,
that stout Island Packet,
worrying about depths, winds, and wakes.
A dragonfly pilots itself beside my head;
as a pelican dives into the water for its lunch.
I have a sudden urge for food myself,
my stomache tells me that;
but, I push it out of my mind.
I’ll think about that later,
when I find a cove to anchor in;
safe from the storms
which have been bearing down,
out of the darkness that surrounds me.
But for now, me and my crooked teeth
are trying not to be succumbed by these waves
caused by the Angel which just whizzed by.
Blue
I want to be a love poem
you find in your purse
and stop to read,
carefully folding it back,
afraid of tearing it
because of the wore fold line,
after you finsh;
to stop to unfold it
and read it again
and again.
I want so much,
I’m breathless.
So breathless,
I turn blue.
Put your lips on mine,
and I will come to life.
Tonight I can write
Tonight I can write
of craters blown open deep
into the crust of my heart,
of a hand reaching out across the green,
of words,
flung by the explosion out into the evening sky,
rain down upon the ground
filling the caters,
forming sink holes, booby traps,
for me to step and fall into,
as I pace about my 12 by 12 room apartment.
Tonight I can write
about love,
about the fleeting moments of the sun set,
who’s bright rays grasp up over the horizon,
just before the sun disappeared,
about words as amebas,
multiplying,
filling the air of my existence;
so I can but breath the love
I‘ve tried so hard to forget.
Tonight, I can write
of lips and eyes,
of fingers and toes,
of parts I’m too shy to talk about,
and of how it was forged into a pillar of salt
which taste was so bitter
to the touch of the tongue and lips,
that I repelled it off the wall
watching the pieces shatter,
fall about the floor
and regroup to stand before me.
Yes, tonight I could write,
but the tears
seem to make it all incomprehensible.
So I laugh, raise the pool stick.
“Off that rail, then that one,
around your ball
to chip mine into the corner pocket.”
“Yea, Right.”
“Well at least, I can try.”
Talking with Broken Objects
Talking with Broken Objects
I’m reflecting upon the coming day
as I examine the new moon.
Delicate gray hairesque filaments and bands
transpose themselves into clouds;
and when composed,
they patiently carry themselves across the horizon.
I ponder what you want to talk about.
There’s a bit of a nervousness romping about my stomache.
In a way, I’m excited, nevertheless a bit scared.
What would I talk about?
I would have to embark upon the trail
by talking about broken objects,
walled hearts,
and leveled siege towers,..
I would have to talk through a mouth full of mud,
about the earth turned dark in the shadows of tall concrete buildings
and black tar rivers of cars transposed across the landscape,
and drunken Mexicans shooting off fireworks
and trash, and teenage whores.
What I have met and crossed are not to be memories,
nor paintings of picturesque dreams,
The lesson learned: enjoy each day as if it the last.
So let’s not sink deeper,
let’s not fillet the corpse;
because I do not have the slightest inclination of what to say
discord erupted into languish and apprehensiveness;
and yet what do I find on the worn mattress?
The face of life sleeping under black blankets.
Smyon-Pa 