though we pretend to be

like the way the bear rolls from his sleep
onto the gentle snowed in morning,

i saw him struggle against cramps
yawning taut

wound tight from a mother who
never sleeps herself

and in consideration of such a rare glimpse
he sensed me too,

we fall and roll into and out
from each other.

waking up from our instincts.
seeing we are not gods.



Aristophanes’ Law

on a whiteboard:
time is flexible with space. as speeds change, the fabric of spacetime reflects its own vulnerability. its impermanence. if the solidity of space and time is not to be assumed, then what is?

yes, and:
riddling. each moment in your eyes carries reflections of my sodded memories, aching up from the grave. you kill them all.


you have the pieces i left behind, tore out and given to a god who spread them across the continents.

its just a myth, lodged in our memory. but we are the shadows of each other.

we are bound in the contrast that sings only when the differential is perfect, and it sings.

forever now.


clouds roll slow
over snowed in white roads and
half shoveled walkways

my eyes imagine
wraiths between the falling flakes,
certain blank spaces

skaters go anyways
round in oblong circles holding
hands of people close

the sun stays slow over
rows of lined up conifers
holding back the baltic fog

i realize i’ve never fallen in love

i’ve been wrapped up in it
ever since my skin was first knit

from a morning i woke up and lost my voice

i hear new things from the morning pine boughs:

be gentle, be still, be ever green/

i hear new things from the white and open lake:

be empty, be form,
be a song when you ache for more/

i’m trying, dear mother,
to let the soft animal love as he does

but my morning body wakes
from contorting and bothered aches

so today, i try, and
i hear new things from the bleating dusty streets:

just go/ just go/ just go/

he is metaphor, he is not metaphor

there are ways to disappoint your lover
and i have listed them in other poems,
poems about misery and trees and a
billion beautiful things, especially him

like holding the dream in a frame of your mind
and holding twelve limp doves instead,
blood trickling down their variegated feathers in

to holding your breath that one day they will
find the pathway to a gapless,
read: pure,
no such things as dreams or needing
to dream.

he would never disappoint me anyways
being that he is who he is.
being that being he is who he is,
one person is only themselves, never in error.

disappointment is not the night
but the shade cast from the chest

for i do not know
what is written on my heart
or what it is capable of

be my lotus, be my lotus

gentle and burgeoning forward
or out of the soil
growth is innocent so long as it can be.

it is a litany of whirling around
and into each other
and singing whispers in-between petals.

like doves together in the morning
we are absent minded of anything
but the pastelled and unfurled atmosphere.
lost in everything, especially the warm
exhale of breath from the south.
especially the light
invitation from a sun that will burn forever,
we imagine.

i feel nothing when i become you
but the catch of each slipping second.

another day another existential crisis

At the moment of setting,
when the sun kisses the
tops of pine trees in a cinch,

it means you could do anything.
Throw everything away and move
to a city with brighter lights.
Wear only grey T-shirts and
fall in love with strangers everyday.

Or you do nothing but
take in the ecstasy of
when the sun and the stars
take their waltzing pass.