Summer two thousand nine, in terms of explosion.

Hullo. Apologies for the ambiguity contained within many of my recent poems. Apparently this summer is turning out to be one of a lot of contemplation and thoughts and ideas (more than usual, perhaps). I’ll hopefully get something that isn’t a poem up soon. I mean, maybe. I should stop suggesting that I am or am not going to write certain things, huh? Tell you what: I will write something, eventually. That pretty much covers it. Okay; this one: The poem is done, but the thought process is a work in progress. Take what you get from it – I hope it’s something. Love you guys – well, as much as I can, with only knowing a few of you. :) Also, PS, this blog is about twenty hits away from 1000 views. That is absolutely ridiculous.


I need room.
Not a big, open field
or an ocean rising and falling at my bidding,
but room.
Just space.
Maybe an empty movie theater.
Or the halls of the high school
ten minutes after the bell goes.
A place that isn’t too far from anyone else,
but a place that only has time and reason
for me.
Public seclusion.
I want to be alone until the silence becomes too big.
Until the weirdness of my soul
starts to swallow me up.
Then I need people.
Strangers and friends,
people to remind me of all the
faces I’ve made and all the stories I’ve
fumbled through.
Strangers to prove to me that I
purse my lips
and change my tone.
Friends to assure me that
they see through all that.
I need to be alone
until I need to be with.

Because sometimes it’s like I’m exploding.
Supernova-ing my way through existence,
burning out in a blaze of glory
that was too blinding to look straight at.
And I want to know that
there are going to be people there
who will cover their eyes
but hold on anyway.
Supernovas need space
and it is then that all eyes turn to them.
A devoted audience fixed on the
flaming speck in the black.

And we are silly.
We humans, devoted as we are to the heavens
and the mysteries housed there –
we watch through our telescopes
in dazzled fascination
as the explosions glow and glimmer
their way through the light years.
I once watched an star burn out
for an entire summer.
It was the brightest pinpoint in the sky
and I would stare at it,
all at once in awe
and in fear.
For if the fire of a star could disappear,
what was stopping the rest of us?
I remember finding out
that the star was long dead
and only now was its dying breath
reaching our eyes.
It was that far away.
I didn’t like finding out.

Humans are silly.
We stand in awe of things
that are dead.
We believe we are like
the dead things that awe us.
I am no supernova.
There is not a beautiful way
to compare the whirlwinds in me
to the fire of a star.
In the infinite universe,
I have only my space.
So give me less of it.
I need some room to burn.
But not light years of it.


Perfect Love, remember?
It disintegrates fear.
It pulverizes it,
rips it apart and burns it in
perfect fire.
Love wrenches the power from the grips of fear.
Claws through the icy heart of fear.
It repels fear.
It cripples fear.
It shatters fear.
Perfect Love.

Stalking myself.

Traipse through spindly forests of good intentions,
run barefoot through an unkempt path of briary underbrush
in a deceptively golden wood.
Trust the unseen forger of the dirt and branches,
the same dirt that mars calloused feet
and the same branches that slice weary arms.
Sometimes I don’t know.
The right doesn’t seem right and the left is wrong too.
I’m not a good believer
when the trail has been boarded up
and I jump the fence anyway.
I am not a good believer.
Believe me.
But I do not stop my well-intended exploration
through maple-treed lands and
lightning-stricken heights.
The ten thousand other wide-eyed,
porcelain-faced girls stride alongside
the one who doesn’t understand any of them.
I thought I frightened most of them off.
Killed a fair few.
Embracing the remnant of shadow-girls,
blind to the fact that people are fathoms deep
and miles across
and I am no exception,
even as much as I want to be.
We are rocks that are only painted again and again
by some underclass faction of artists-by-night,
never stripped of the years of aerosol-fueled
midnight meetings that so slowly
and so consistently
built up a shell.

Shake off the shadow-girls
and scrape away the gilded billboards.
Find some certainty in the midst of a once-familiar woodland,
traversed by a once-familiar person.

Convincingly Accurate Portrayals of Sinking and Swimming.

I have only seen beautiful people.
You should sit down for this
because I want you to
understand the gravity of the situation.
We are floating on the surface of an
ocean of possibility.
The probability of dying down there is immense,
and the probability
of finding the pirates’ treasure is not much less.
Still we float,
and we are content to do so.
Do you ever hate that about humanity?
Are you ever ashamed of our irrational fears?
Let us sink like stones to the abandoned sea floor,
once the top of a mountain before the earth turned herself inside out.
If only we could be like the plates,
shifting and breaking,
causing earthquakes and explosions.
I have always lived in the unfulfilled dramas,
praying for a breaking point
but never really expecting one.
Someone once said that the world would fall into anarchy
if we all just said the things we felt
I’m not sure if we would really mind that.
We crave that.
Upending the triviality for the reality.
Sometimes I think it’s all in my head,
that I am the only one who sees this.
But they are out there
And they notice things like no one else,
and I think we could change something.
When you see the ones that mean it,
you believe in your sanity again
and if we just promised one another that there was a point behind the pointlessness
then we could save ourselves a whole lot of wondering.
Let’s fall onto the grass like starfish
left behind after the sea receded into the dirt.
And there,
we will swear to ourselves and the angels that we aren’t going to be hypocrites anymore.
Dance the infinite dance.
It’s not a new line but it’s the truest one I can think of.

The making known of a secret.

It’s a strange revelation for a writer:
to discover that there are many things
for which words were not invented.
So it has to be enough
to immerse myself in the existence
and trust that the reality is not lost
simply because I can’t understand it.

Maybe this is the point of all our words –
to finally skid haphazardly into the place
where everything just comes apart.
It might be that this is the permission:
to rest in the midst of the melting words
without the need to glue it all back together.