According To us.

According to us, the sun was destroyed
In a ball of fire.
A ring around Saturn.
The planets are all aflame.
I am not the one to blame.
The river is a torrent of voices.
It spins to us in many different choices.
You are the river.
The void of night.
You are the dying of the light.
I seek but do not find.
I fight but do not climb.
I hear but do not see.
It is just me.
I find rivers.
I find cold forests;
Beer is in the cold forest.
I seek to blame.
I am one without a name.
I am not forgiven.
My light is not a flame.
I care to stay alive.
My heart is not of floods and waters.
We are tired.
We bury bones.
We are tired of stillness,
The water is cold.
The wind is timeless.
We are the river.
We are tired.
I find rivers.
According to us, the moon was in motion-
The water was fluid in movement.
The memory is still inside of me.
Still. I can’t see.
Boxes are in cornflowers.
I write a riddle down on a piece of paper.
The riddle is myself.

Little Sea.

Little sea, you are red and full of light-
Little sea, you glow from Beijing, China,
Your hand is atop your head. Fixated on the
Chandelier in the living room, you glare at me instead.
Little sea, you rest on walls in pictures. You are here;
You are gone. Oh ancient heart, o still mind,
We walk here and come to Chinatown. In Illinois,
We are shy of movie posters; we are fond of people
Saying things. Back and forth, we grumble; we howl
Gruesome words atop our lungs. An author admires
A lowly writer. I walk down the street, swinging grocery
Bags, hum to myself. A famous actor dies in the streets of
Chicago; a wounded warrior bears the tattoo of a bartender
On his chest, not knowing why he has it-knowing he has
No direct age. The thoughts are of the flesh. The thoughts
Are rotten still. Stiller than a photograph, he breathes life
Into it-
Sadness permeates him, he is not aware.