Monday, July 30, 2012

102. Caenochrysis

Image source:

Dust settles mutely,
silent snow on gilded spines;
sunlight dyes the untouched leaves
more acrid shades of sand:

Turquoise glistens in the naïve lights;
photons dance upon the lacquered orb.
It is a scarab, it is some ancient

Pausing in the untold centuries,
a single timeless beauty rests,
beckoning amidst the desert of
celibate academia;

There is the long-faded scent of
crushed cigars, the strange perfume
of crystallized ink.
There are forgotten letters left
half-written on the desk:

How do we reconcile –
A catch of azul light,
ephemeral on the patio
reflects in the flower-stamped dress
of a young girl next door:

Some unknown beetle specimen
hovers soundlessly, brief on the false
lilies of the polyester fabric:
it’s like a factory, there is this
lovely hue everywhere –
but there is only one shade like this,
glistening everywhere,
landing noiselessly in the
obscurely dappled shrubs;

all others steal the eyes
for just as long,
but it is this precise,
indescribable swatch
we struggle the rest of our lives
studying, searching,
never truly describing,

Friday, July 27, 2012

101. Rain

Cleanse the Earth, rain;
feed the parched crops,
the sunburned acres.

Drive the men and women home,
send them driving home in cars,
in buses,
running with newspapers
wrapped around their heads;
send them back to the ones they

Wash away the scent of Wednesday night’s
wash away everything, rain,
until there is simply the rhythmic
of water dripping down the eaves
and blood coursing through my
spellbound veins.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

100. Zdes’ khorosho

It’s lovely here:
the sky is blossoming into
it’s hard to believe
the close of day could be so
iridescent, wonderful.

It doesn’t matter that
I love you or
you love me;
the sun has not yet set,
but the moon lifts high upon the
silken skies:
and as you laugh,
creases form around your
molten eyes,
and I smile too.

No, nothing matters but this
lovely moment,
that I love you
and that you are here with me.

Sunday, July 1, 2012

99. after

After we die,
our parents continue making
grocery lists;
the ones we loved
take long walks in the
forest with their
and our friends wonder
how we became
a statistic.

After we die,
the world still moves on;
people, too, keep moving in their
predictable paths.

If I were still
alive, I suppose
I would still be
spinning, rotating.

But I wanted to be
I wanted to create

Stupid thing,
is what I was told
I was
when I still lived,
until I accepted it.
I am a stupid thing,
I could do everything but
none of it

There was no
I lay in the place I
hand outstretched,
eyes gazing at the
mid-day sun.

I had the courage to look
straight at the
People always told us,
don’t look at the sun
directly; it’ll
hurt your

But I dared to look,
I tried to live.
Life was simply not
meant for