Stars N Islands

Stars and Islands

I am walking in the morning. The wind moves against the back of my
Neck. I am a habitat, I am moving-I think of all the animals of the world.
Tomorrow is like it is in the morning-and the night is sweet with its song,
Always moving, always in mourning. I don’t have enough money to get what I want to
Get, new clothes, or going on a trip to Ireland.

The airplane flies through the air;
And lands on a runway.
Night is calm, and burdened are we-
I see your face in my dreams.

Finches are on the island where Michaelangelo once lived, moving like shadows
In the dark. Stars come out to play. It is night, and the stars shine down.
It is darkness, and we are in the darkness, and we are like shadows in the dark.
That is glowing.

I want to go on a trip to see my friend. I want to see his silhouette marching down
The dark street, eyes like sparklers, moving in the dark.
The streets are lined with both darkness and sorrow; the street lights are lit with bright stars.

THE KNOWING.

Of all the things that were created,
And the hands of clocks are turned backwards.
The guitar player plays at a pub in London,
And wildflowers bloom on the darkness and mist.
I thought we weren’t going to be here more than usual,
That things are tempted and not created-
That the fields and wildflowers are in full bloom,
And nakedness dances like urchins in the living room.
Light bounces off the fireplace. The night has come,
And shadows march across me, around me, through me-
People forget time, forget watches, forget bread,
The eating is not sinful. We are ghosts running against
Time, we are respectful, and we are dead. We are clocks
That spin around and around, and the sun melts into
Shadows. Someone sleeps in his cave, a dog barks at night,
The wind whistles like a train in a shimmering light.
My mother is awful, my father is dead-I have no home to call my
Own, only the night lingers like mistakes. The moon
Burns brightly, a lamp shakes, and bones shake like lightning.
We run away, and we run, and we keep running until guilt
Keeps us back.
No one sees me, no one knows.

THE BOYFRIEND.

The fruit sits on the table-my boyfriend, the guitar,
sits on the chair at the other end of the table-
his eyes are like steel pools of cold, blackness.

He thinks to himself he is not gone for good,
that he is not a radio, a star, a piece of fruit-
the fruit that is on the table, in the middle of himself.

He is not myself. He is not a hole inside myself.
He is the world, and the world is growing large-
large inside my belly, that feeds another world.

He sits in the green chair, all by himself, and molds
tomorrow out of clay-clay that melts between my fingers-
and sings out a world.

My heart is in my hands. In between dreams, thoughts are
things, and everyone is ecstatic about the fruit of trees.
People mold, and life continues-but not for disease.

For people with disease, life ends, bitterly, and it is the
end of all worlds-the worlds that spin between time and space,
and the stories we make real.

Pages. Grew.

On the foliage, grew from great wisdom.
The tiptoe of a cat on forest water;
Blue boats shimmering in the sea.
Grief stricken, the man rowed to shore;
The salad was taken out,
Put back on a plate,
And surrendered again to the infinite.
The thinking sometimes takes
Many times to go over and over,
Without and within.
The period of everlastingness
Is not without seasons
That tiptoe through different seasons,
Different times,
Things that are different.
I experience things in your grief.
You experience things in mine.
The minotaur raises its claws
In surrender;
The wind refuses to shine.
His eyes are brown.
Brown as other worlds.
The other worlds tiptoe over
Other great things.
The greatness is vast.
It is all vast.
The vastness in it is rage-
The rage fills the page.

Changing Nature.

I am not pine. Not, NOT.
You fill me. Beer walks in meadow. Meadow is beer.
Look at me in the eyes and say, "Breezily!" We are here.
You seem to be casual. Seem to exclaim words only I can
hear. You walk and everyone knows; clouds echo in darkness.
My void is the goodness; the goodness that is everything.
My voice is caught in my throat, the throat that is not choice.
My mother moves to London, my dead mother, the mother
who wed some man from Penchance; from dusk. He is careful,
he peels back flowers to reveal the dark, sweet nut,
the gentleness of his hands paint pictures. His words are painstaking;
sharp; a list of melodramatic stepping stones.

I am not pine. You walk down the street and dream of inland islands.
A ship is on the water. The water has cooled. It is an island.
We talked about islands; we talked about the fear of them, how they
grow, how they change, how they move. We walk in orchards. Dusk is gone.
The meadow shifts and changes. The meadow breathes life into a dull mind.
You remember the eyes? Anger of death, dying; the taking. The TAKING!
It is you taking me, me taking you and no one knows why. You speak to me
in code. I don't know. Can't grow. Stopped. The ship stops moving on
the waves. His pain, no pain enters, we are. Are.

I am not the broken. The becoming of it. I am not the stale, the wind
that moves the air. I am looking up into the clouds. I think of clouds;
HE moves clouds. Moves them away. Ships on water. Ships on sand. He never
KNEW, never let me know the pain I have caused him. Try, try, don't flinch,
breathe, be. KNOW.
Pain in trees. Squirrels climb up and down. Roots are uprooted. He says, Ha!
To both nature and war. Try? Try!! A sorry-faced man climbs the stairs. His hands are on the banister. He turns away, his face pale and translucent.

So far, so good, o ice that bends and breaks, in Alaska, Illinois,

Apology to Moths.

A moth lives in the attic at night,
sneezing dully. Rabbits hop about my
backyard, three of them at once.
The stars shine in the night above me,
like shooting stars.

I am sitting at my typewriter, clickclacking
away, trying to create/make/bake something
that is more worthwhile than words.

A moth lives in the attic at night,
and eats away at my clothes every single hour
of every single second of the day,
munching happily.

My little cousin asks me if moths are like
butterflies. I tell him, "Yes, they are,
listen to the beat of their wings." He falls
asleep on the couch.

Do Not Feed the Bears.

My mind is corporate.
I speak little.
My heart is broken in two pieces.
Like shards of glass,
I take them out and throw them
down a well.

In Africa, they do not have water.
In Africa, the children have no shoes.
Think about your thoughts before you do
them.
Think about sorrow’s forbidden muse.

My friend is in the hospital
and has been for seven days straight.
They fixed his heart and lungs,
they fixed the arch in his forehead.

The sign outside reads "Do not feed the
bears."
Sometimes, I forget that part,
they are harmless as fleas.