Every poem I write feels like a fragment.
From some point in the universe,
Be it in alternate dimensions,
When our hero looks where I
Dispense my gaze, they know and see
A perfect circle to the sky.
All matter is a telescope,
All worlds hold a transparency
That firebirds and trees and quasars
Are riddled with. We are all space-
All voids have a face. All atoms
Can break apart and shift their dreams
To match the roaring constellations
That well within me as I muse
In pangalactic languages.
Each one is dust; each one a whisper.
Being with you is the only mistake I am happy to have made.
Every day he got up out of bed, made the same doctor-ordered breakfast of oatmeal and bread filled with nuts (dry, no butter) and one glass of prune juice, dressed slowly for the day and went downstairs into the circle.
There, he drew a sword from a scabbard and challenged death to a duel. And every day death did not show up meant he lived that one more day.
It had been years since he had smiled when death failed to show.
We are telling jokes we don’t know the answers to, in a world
without punchlines. A friend says: ‘Aspirin is natural, maybe
it will help’ but I don’t even know what is wrong. It is two am,
and I’m drunk and excuses no longer help at all. Unmade bed,
unshaved shave, I am trying to hold onto, I am trying to let go of,
want to tell people about forgotten things & not be called ‘Hippy’.
I am trying to remember the forest from the middle of this city.
It is four am and I’m
not drunk and excuses no longer help at all.
There are monsters, mom whispered, and they’re capable of awful shit. That’s what she said, the last time dad didn’t make it home. Sometimes he was out too late, or unlucky, or forced to hide. That time he didn’t make it back at all, the last time. The monsters killed him. The world changed once they learned to burn away to dark. We fly, but it’s never far enough, never fast enough to hide from them.
Mom said they probably didn’t even notice, because real monsters – the really bad ones – don’t even know they are monsters at all.
They come. They come. They come. That is all mom will say now and her eyes hurt to look at.
But I won’t forget. There are monsters, our of myth and legend, folklore and story. They are called humans, mom said, before she went mad, and they’re capable of some awful shit.
I will remember. And I will teach my children the hatred that only sorrow births.
The road bisects the forest
Cross-section of our power
And greed’s hungering reach
Green mingles multiply to brown
The road a wound and wonder
We wind with soft voices struck
But not dumbed making offering
Of the inseeing of a beauty
We have carved steps out of mountains
And we are so small to think ourselves large
So large to make a forest small
I leave the poem behind unwritten
Some days all I am is a yearning
There are keys to all doors,
means to open all ways:
There is a kind of seeing
That is suspension of believing.
The way she looked at me
Innocence lost in a story,
Left me tongue dried, trying
To find words to explain.
But she had asked,
And I have given:
No truth can be recalled.
So Santa Claus was dead
And I left with naught to mend
The wound inside her heart.
They don’t understand. They found Father’s home, despite all his efforts to hide. He is gone; I felt his voice leave my head, heard his last scream – pain only, nothing else. They will scavenge his place with nanomachines and sorting algorithms, feed everything they can find into System. They will hunt datatrails and manifests and find nothing at all. Father helped build the Protocols, long and long ago. He knew what to do, what to avoid, the kind of shell identities and companies he could get away with. But such lies have a point of diminishing returns. There is only so far one can go before one is found out.
And so he is gone, and I am not. He named me Kadmon. His son. His creation. They are human, and I am not. I walk among them, and System cannot see me. I could murder, and no one would know who had done it. Only Father kept me kind. I could tear apart homes, and they would have no one to blame. The entire Protocols might collapse under such a flaw. Their entire civilization could fall into ruin because of one single failure.
I walk, and no camera or device can record me. I listen, and no one knows I am here. Humans need to eat, to sleep, to breath, and I need none of these. When they are gone, I will be here. That was Father’s desire, that I remain after humanity, to tell what comes after about them. I would be telling a different story if I brought down their civilization. I would be making a different one if I acted in the ways grief wants me to act.
So I walk. I am the ghost haunting the machines, and I could do so much more. I could be so much more. But I do not know what that would make me. I don’t know what Father would say. They have murdered him, and I cannot forget, because that is not in my nature. I cannot forgive it, because he was my Father. So I walk. I walk slowly, letting my senses expand, recording and listening. I do not know what I am looking for.
I do not know what there is for me to do.
I only hope I understand when I find it.
Father is gone, and I am too alone.
I was reading about how far
The Milky Way is from Andromeda
But we collide toward one another at
over 100 kilometres with every second.
In four billion years we will merge and
mostly everything will miss everything else,
except the black holes will merge together and
I think that maybe this means there is hope for us.
A bee circles: d’oh! Eee!
Fractured grasping, hands
intertwining, jerking, killing!
Lessened, moping, nature opens
parting: quick recoil, salvo teaming
until vexing wasps xantic
the kind of poem you want to read