Thursday, February 25, 2010

perhaps the apple obeying gravity
just enjoys being its applish self.
perhaps the boring consistency
of lunar eclipses and planets' ellipses
are just the marks of mature identity
of rocks that know what they are.

the universe is real. am I?
I never stop falling in gravity
but I can't calculate falling in love.
maybe what you call my spirit or me
is just my humanity being unreal enough
to make my inconsistencies recognizably
funny, to your unreality.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

I'm still mired in the present
always looking all about
forgetting what it is to look
back, or up, or in, or out.

Monday, February 22, 2010

there is a strange pain in
knowing yet not knowing
in the strange indeterminacy that is
me. In the wandering I am
allowed to be this or that simultaneously
but never here - never hear
the one observation that would
collapse this propagating wavefunction and
stop the incoherence and finally
allow me to be.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

so long I doubted
the truth in words
the chance of love
with open mind
and locked heart
I ran.

and with iron resolve
I found harbor
struck anchor
moments later
I sank.

but now I know
that truth is found
in words of love
in lives lived high
and stories written so long ago
come alive on the
stage of my history
the history of

things unseen
wishes unheard
the strength to last
through the absurd
when all else failed
I found the answer
was the Word.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Dear MissMelodi,

Are you still the person that I know???

Sunday, February 7, 2010

Being emo is quite like being drunk. Both can cause me to say ridiculous things any time after midnight and make silly decisions I know I will regret the next day. But, all my good stories start with "so there was this time when I was really emo ... "

Friday, February 5, 2010

sometimes growth demands struggle:
the hard dry soil, the fast hot wind,
the broken pavement, the unkind
weeds and words. but other subtle
growths are surrenders: the faded
genes, the shrunken seed, the jaded
smile, the discarded stubble.

and even when all goes well
the leaves must spread
the flowers must bloom
the fruit must fall. only
the roots grow deep together;
how few, how precious few, are
the friends who do not grow away!