Category Archives: Poetry

When poetry tries to capture
my futuristic simulation
reality
all of us
just sitting there
hooked up machine to machine
dolls recharging forever
until their whimsical creator runs
out of patience.

I laugh
at the idea
that poetry could ever be capable
of virtual reality
the flicker of a saccade
the self injection of senses when you feel
slightly.

No this poem would date back
to a ripe beginning
painted in suffering
to the dolls today.

Maybe it would sing
to the glassy eyes
only see never hear
that kind of experience
of the caves etched with characters
the farms
the knives, the bombs
the cities of smoke and glass
skyscrapers that reach beyond sight
but not beyond imagination,
the books that the world once read,
the cries that the world elicited, then comforted.

With every breath the dolls
clutch to a life
unknown.

He is a king of sorts
in a realm washed of color
shaded solely in flutters of grey
like butterflies drained of life.

In a realm washed of color
he sits on a classic throne
several inches above the floor
A haven for his motionless body to fold into.

Several inches above the floor
Hovers some semblance of life
Or is it an illusion of creatures
With clipped wings, bound just above the floor

like butterflies drained of life.
He rules over a hollow place paved
by actions lost so far in the past
He forgets how to regret.

There may once have been more than this castle
shaded solely in flutters of grey
but he no longer dreams in hues
nor of delicate flight.

He sits on a classic throne
several inches above the floor
where his subjects lay before him
in a colorless illusion he has learned not to question.

He lived in a world
where stars shuttered and gasped
slamming their windows shut
for brightness became too blinding
and darkness too dulling
too peer outside

So he saw only the sun–or
at least hints of the sun
when his eyes hid under a shade
and rays became hints,
remnants of a power,
too sharp for his mortal eyes

He saw only the moon
that he failed to comprehend.
A papery beauty
he might be able to cut up
into a white circle
Romanticized into oblivion.

Cupped palms faced upward
not nearly clamped
but unwilling to let anything slip by
as he waited
for light to fall
into those fingers
that would not even let water slip through.

If the touch screen beneath my fingers were real
and the forever extending mountain
adorned with pinks and oranges of a sunset
white snow in the shadowed crevasses
while the sun hits the peaks
the clouds only a few pixels above
shaded with purples and blues to give the illusion of grey

were real

then I might question if the keyboard from which I type
were real

Because surely one entails the other,
So close in vicinity so immediately tangible
it is all real
I might say.

But the eyes that are my lens
for all those marvelous illusions to bleed through
could be all blind
foggy pupils swirled marbles
feeding my brain a canvas of lies
if they were real.

If there were any confirmation at all
unquestionable, undeniable,
the epitome of unwavering integrity
alone in orbit
existing

watching all the pieces fall together
self oriented tetris blocks
slowly erecting a wall to the infinite top
much much higher than the pixelated sky
of more hues than could possibly be counted

If infinity were real.

One bubble, then two
And the water was boiling itself away
Waiting til its droplets entered the air,
Never to return to its domain
Forever to join a vast world

What fear that triggered within watchful souls!
For ephemerality became weakness
And weakness made them all want to shrink back
Into their turtle shells made of glass
Tap tap
Shatter
Enter into the world of fear.

The entertainment derived
from watching droplets evaporate away
Posed quite the dilemma
for the weak hearted
Unable to accept the end
of a parched basin
Once rich in life.

Latch on tightly to every molecule
Hurry and snatch them back
Force them down to condense
and return lovingly to you
Even if it means snatching every molecule
in the world
Empty every ocean, drain every cloud
so the droplets lost to the world
might be in one of them.

Fortify the glass with platinum
Brace for the epic crusade
to acquire and conquer.
Don’t forget to carry along a little pouch
to pocket each droplet
before it might escape once again.

And hopefully
it won’t be too long before the realization
boiling water was always meant to escape
into a cyclical world
comes crashing into the illusion.

No other feeling could be more terrifying
than that split second realization
that something is missing, in a place that escapes memory.
Dread pools up in the brain, a growing parasite.

But as is common knowledge
losing weight is still losing weight
whether it be through starvation or organic kale-filled diet.
Armed with such insight, the parasite knows
if it keeps sitting and dining
eventually, the whole mind will wander blindly
not quite lost, implying a destination to begin with
but just aimless.
Dread dissipates.

The parasite shrivels up
into the small particles of air
waiting for another chance to coalesce
and take on corporal form.
It knows no end to hunger.

The wind whispered in the trees
because ultimately, it was too taxing to shout
or even speak at room volume
which, supposedly, was somewhere between the perch of a bird
and whir of a tornado (how stupid that was, for the maximum volume to be itself).

The wind was an energy conservative fellow
never willing to force more than its quota of leaves to fall
or shake more than a few birds out of their nests
watching eggs crack on the earth
splatter the yolks, soil the ground
which is ok.
It was not the wind’s job to clean up.

But the wind did not lie completely motionless
for on occasion it screamed to the earth in fury
in desperation
that it might acquire a tangible body
and maybe then, life might not be so lethargic.

Such moments were not frequent
for the wind knew that longing and wishing
were the most exhausting of them all.

If I could manufacture a pencil
from its inception as wood on a tree, granite from rocks
to that finely crafted wooden object
we use to fill out bubbles on standardized tests
I’d be a free market economic mystery.
If I could work in a factory
piecing small but critical parts of a tablet
I’d hold all the world in my hands
and perhaps many more worlds—
should my imagination stretch so far.
But I work in the sadness factory
which is all those things and nothing at once.
An empty place with a chair and a table.
No fancy conveyor belt nor repetitive assembly.
And sit and sit and sit.

The escape artist stood in front of a mirror naked
saw only what disgusted
not hands nor eyes nor legs nor waist
nor head nor arms nor neck
but the plain bulge of flesh that tore
into the idealism characteristic of a child or stupid adult
ah, how it would be good to be thin and beautiful
said the escape artist who only knew beauty in those separate realms
visited silently at night.

And the artist felt such shame
dripping down the drab drain
of meaningless thoughts and petty wishes.
This physical body could be written into fantasy
and the mind would still be drifting elsewhere
in a pretty shell
maybe with the ability to fly too.
Still, concern anchored this earthly corpse
better suited to a morgue
sitting at the bottom of the ocean.
The escape artist thought
Ah, how great it would be not to be so grounded