I suppose there is a beauty in being the kind of person

who lights things on fire rather than sitting down;

who runs so fast that the tears are ripped away

by the wind of the sighs that gasp at their heels.

These are people who get written about in poems,

and who don’t have to write their own songs.

They are inscrutable—godly aloof.

People love to throw themselves at them.

But I am not a thrower of my self anymore.

I’ve lived enough tragic love stories,

thrown so many pennies into wishing wells,

maybe I wouldn’t have to work this shitty desk job if I’d saved them.

I wouldn’t give up those loves, their memories, the shadowy ache they left,

for eternal life or riches,

but I would damn well rather have the here and now of them

if they hadn’t run off on poetic benders.

I would a thousand times over rather be buried in that black hair,

side by side and breathing the same air in the night,

than to have learned my lessons from

those heroes who can’t bear to stay for fear of facing the light of day.

Fuck you, rolling stones. I once thought I’d be your moss

and just latch on, stay with you;

but once you’ve rolled so far you’ve worn away your features,

you will be just another grain of sand.

I will be planted here, on a hilltop, on a tree root,

and I will have that ache in me still,

but I will not chase you down.

If you had seen the beauty in me,

the quieter heroics of my unfurling,

I’d have been happy to run you down and show you the wildness in me,

savage as yours, capricious as the wind in your hair.

But you’d have had to stop and turn around,

stop being that fleeing hero for long enough

to let me show you my self.

My self does not back down from demons you might let loose.

It does not quiver in fear when you yell.

It will not turn away when you cry.

It will bolster you against yourself,

it will hold on to you when you quiver

and fight what makes you turn away.

But it will not chase you anymore.

Remember how I was when it was spring.

we’re all dying.

our mouths are fading from our faces.
fingertips wrinkle
when the skin of past lover is touched;
in memoriam.

twitching bodies at the end of gentle pads,
circular fingerprints like the rings of an oak tree;
like the rings of friends wedded to their friends.
all you take is the love you give.

we’re all dying.
under overcast sundays,
on streets wet with rain.
in the hospital room,
pushing a clone from the womb.

each heart beat,
every breath
closer to the bridge from this world to the next
and i feel fine.

On the bottom of cigarette packet
Alive on death’s bed
Searching sea as urchin

Sleepy toes of childlike beauty
Her centre my centre piece
She picks it I pack it

No longer triste
She came
There she goes again
Triste

Syrup soul hopping
Sloppy hole biting soul
Oak leaf veins bleeding skin
My loss her whole.

will i rail forever
against the moments past–
eternally reigniting
what has long since grown cold?
reanimating our bodies
our touches, words, and embraces–

who falls asleep and dreams it
and believes in a glimpse of the truth?

only i am left to navigate
my dog-eared, weary calendar,
my fractured timepiece–
this clock turned to compass
and astrolabe–
guiding me forth into dark seas
of memory
and moments i have stolen
from time.

i am still in search–
my beacon is dim but i doubt
it will ever go out.
i toss and turn in this makeshift
sea-faring bed
searching for the snag, the wrinkle,
the rip– in my chronology
the chance to sail beyond
a horizontal plane and spill off
into star-speckled eternity.
ship and sea and space, all one–
and me.. existing in a place
that has no place for me.

yet here i am, in the cosmos
having freed myself from the day
and night which limit me..
feeding warm light from my mind
to darkness, as all around me
the sky crackles into true being–
a back lit, scratched projector
for my memories.

will i ever go home?, i ask, to nothing..
away from my past-collided present,
and fragmentary strains
of perfect light–
or will i always come back
out of fear of nothing to suffer–

and nothing to write?

i am the navigator
who spilled off his course
and into unlimited being.
i write this line and wish
i could fall into the infinite depth
inside each tiny scrawl of ink..
the journey isn’t over.

.. it’s all in what you think.

ajd
8.23.09

Anger towards your footing, your best
My load seems lighter than yours
From Your side
Waves heavy on my insides
Steady on my mind

Pull, push, and prod
Evaporation takes hold
I grab tight to the particles
For the morning after
Hoping I will no longer wake
In the anxiety of the present
Where you hold me like love

Your inconstistacy mimics your thoughts
Your words
The bullshit is intriguing
For it’s incredible
That you’re admired for it
Nothing special
I’ve seen the same in pool side bitches
And top ten hits

My belly full
The mind screams for air
Surrounded by yellow and pink roses
All black in my head

Take me back to the color wheel
When colors where true
And lacked decieveing pigments of gray
Take me back to a life unchanged
Make this my redemption day