Celebration

Let all things begin. Sky sprawls

wilder than leopard in flight.

It turns its head downward.

The light dives into tomorrow.

Come now to the bright empty.

Time spins all things back into

their smaller pieces, tick by tick,

as low silences breathe joy into the hour.

Music denies the heart all its urges,

except for that damn ascent into

blindness. Where you and I rise

to what these beautiful days living

have offered us, and close our eyes.

Forces fade in, the ones that remain

in veils of science, showing us how

body is linked to atmosphere.

How the tree moves. Which parts

of the animal are forever quiet.

I have forbidden myself to feel

anything as I write this in the dark,

this yellow room, as my friends

drink and sing along to the end

of the year. Whales of emotion

part the waters of my being.

I think of time as a night—

brief and unrepeatable as this one.

The point of happiness is to remain.

Look, there are people around you.

Make them last as long as you can.

"If there is anything after this existence,
I say no to the politics of heaven or hell.
I hope it would just mean rest."
-Corin Arenas

1.

you know, i just watched Funny People and it made me think, i gotta be more honest while i'm up here. when i'm up here, i mean i'm alive. call me a sucker for unconventional friendship movies, but i don't want to lie anymore. this world is great.

2.

i think i don't have it in me anymore to be poetic. so i'll just play with form instead. and leave the text as unpoetic and as plain as possible. i don't think i'm trying too hard. i think i'm making sort of like an abstract painting. but for writing. and in reverse.

3.

so let me get back to the point. this world is great. i woke up this morning and saw my friends. and in the evening i ate quite a good meal. i played music. i watched a good movie. then it struck me to just write shit down. so i'm writing this shit down.

4.

i don't want to be fat anymore.

5.

god, i'm sleepy.

Mondays are for Abandon

Mondays, my friend, are for abandon.
Mondays tell you to move outside your
bathroom, and call me crazy but I think
there's some heaven in leaving.
Mondays perch on your shoulder as the
suns grow heavy with lifegiving speed.
Mondays will whistle with you, or if not,
sit down beside you and weep
if they have to. Mondays break promises,
and dive. Mondays go to bars and thrive
on the people who live through them.
Mondays go as they please.

Tuesdays dine at parks and weave
through babies' hair, and sink into
televisions. Tuesdays forsake
mother time and leave strange notes
on their pillowcases. Tuesdays love
to eat grapefruit. Tuesdays are boring
but they swear they are trying to be
funny. Tuesdays slide away and avoid
swimming pools at all costs.
Tuesdays are ready to get married.

Wednesdays are not. Wednesdays
comb through everything that's ochre
and spit it out into a ball. One Wednesday
is enough in a week. Wednesdays
will save you from zombies. Wednesdays
will stay up at dawn and forget themselves
when they see that they are no longer
needed. Wednesdays light cigarettes and
take their coffee black. Wednesdays
always watch their backs.

Thursdays play in bands and volunteer
at shelters. Thursdays never forget to take
their meds or partake in all this dividedness,
or swindle their ways into another side of
the half-truth, on the rib cage of a science
thought lost beneath the bellies of Tuesdays.
Thursdays complain about the apex of the heart,
about the martyr who would stand still,
about the room in which a parcel of history
they so desire was created.

Fridays let the tongue in through the back.
Fridays are supposed to be quiet, but they have
no plans and are hence, inquiring. Fridays get
no sleep nor want for food, nor need love
at its bare minimum. Fridays lick the stale air
they were born from and feast on art. Fridays
last for millenia without decomposing. Fridays
cannot argue, thought with the fact
that they are going to end. Fridays betray
themselves over and over again, until, at last.

Saturdays burn so easily that they are used
often as a drink. Saturdays recognize the harmonies
in any song on the radio. Saturday's favorite word
is a myth that had forgotten how to be properly
told. Saturdays secrete the listless, the pardoned,
the survivors of a madman's memoirs, droplets
that coalesce into the funniest jokes, many other
selves. Saturdays rust. Saturdays must. Saturdays
get dizzy inside bookstores but stayfor the smell.
Saturdays rhyme with nitroglicerine at the back
of a basketball court and spin on the floor like there
ain't no tomorrow.

But Sundays insist that there is. Sundays will steal
your sadness and turn it into a crisp consonant at
the edge of every child's new voice. Sundays are
made to know that the best thing to do when you have
lost is to accept this, that you, dear friend have lost.
Sundays will walk with you down the stairs. Sundays
are doting on thier many unused coffins. Sundays
bleed enamel and have the gift of telepathy. Sundays
are arranging the dinner table. Sundays will break
bread with you and call you home.

Windows 7 is the shiznit!

So fast, so clean, so cool!

Phenomenon

sometimes what happens is instant.
the wave becomes a long white hush.
imagination crystallizes into machine.

sometimes tears turn into trees
when the moon is too pretty and
it is difficult to be sad. this happens

when the lover and the loved, love.
this happens when a light turns on.
as one intuits his way through sleep

or when an eagle is befriended, when
a tribe marries another tribe, when man
and city meet, when the pen i hold

suddenly becomes a reason. discover
what must be discovered. a fountain
of all the things that make us wake.

this poem has a name.
i lose it while listening to the rain.
this poem gives itself time
to walk across my life as though
i were a lake, dark and warm
with the reflections of stars.
i believe in hope. i believe it is
the origin of sin. and this poem
listens sadly as it holds my face.
come rise with me, it says,
to the places you've forgotten:
the carousel and its lifeless horses,
grandfather's afternoons spinning
music on his turntable, music
coming from nowhere. and i lose
my face. or the idea of my face.
i lose my terrifying body and turn
in stead into water. ready to be
walked upon by things more faithful
than the human heart. this lie. this
poem and its name. telling me
what it is like to turn into the dark
river of words, into a spinning wheel
of memory. and loss. this poem
has a name. a name like any other.
a word. a sound. music.