Enough with Shooting Stars Already!

"Whatever dies, was not mixed equally."
--John Donne

Let foolish love, itself to immolate,
Trail fiery clouds below more stalwart hearts.
Unfit to stand, too volatile to wait,
It kindles blazes from discordant parts.
Celestial matter sundered from its source,
It clashes with telluric atmospheres.
Intent to run a self-consuming course,
The torrid sigh descends—and disappears.
The love that spans the sky illumines more
Than silly fancy with its streaking flares,
So let us make no specious metaphor
By which to justify inane affairs:
The foreign lamps we deem to be less bright
In truth burn brighter—but with distant light!

A Pauper's Plea

Make perfect tally of the debt I owe
for every kiss you rendered me,
and I will pay with interest.

What currency can so indemnify
love’s debtor for the pains accrued
except a kind repayment?

What's now the going price for ardent smiles?
I fear I trade in deficit,
so let me make requital.

In truth, I know the stumbling rites of love
cannot be quantified or priced,
though they may seem a trifle.

But we have fallen out of pure exchange,
and so, I pay—at least in part—
with hours spent on verses.

Make no allowance for this debt I bear;
I'll stay however long I may
within your debtor’s prison.

The Reader

I suppose I am my own worst demon
Controlling my every thought and perception
I mold my reality like a ball of clay
Supple and malleable; it does what I want
I suppose some could say I control nothing
But I do control my perception of control
If I believe I do, I do
And that's really good enough
I think I can feel more than some people
But at the same time I think many see me callous
I am constantly watching
I observe the world
I live within my own snow globe
And shake it up from time to time
I can allow myself distractions
Or I can be closed off to just one
I can sit by myself, but I'm never alone
I constantly think of someone else
It just seems impossible to think of me and only me
Why should I be so important to myself?
If I serve no one in serving myself it is futile
But I suppose the fact is that I do
When I think of me, I think of you
It's strange how some people affect me
Not bad, but peculiar
Some are fat, stout, tall, lank, lean, or absolutely delicious
I am led to consumption of some types more than others
I feed on the lively ones
Their energy is contagious
But it does not infect me, for I have it already
It recharges a battery already working
Skin tones, eye color, hair, curves, faces
Patterns behind the eyes
Mannerisms and inflection
There is little that escapes me
We are all so transparent
It is impossible to avoid inspection
Just give it time
Your beauty is exquisite
You intrigue me fully
There are so many facets unexplored
So many shelves and tombs that you don't even know
You have so many blank pages
So many full pages
You cram some things between the lines and in the margins
And other things go ignored
But on the whole you are delectable
Not in any way of impropriety
But you create a fascination
A growing fascination
And I think by exploring you I will find myself
A peace that I have not felt yet
A calm that I want
It will come
As I am an open book or books
Let us read

Spiral Slide

I.

I yell at myself and fight with a side that is me and is not me all in the same moment
I agonize over what could be a supposed death of that angel that sits on my shoulder
The devil thinks he has a new sand box
Filled with hot wheels, buckets, and plastic dinosaurs
But what he thinks is a play place is actually a sifter
And I catch all the weevils in the flour
I don't like extra protein in my bread

II.

I am placid and calm, directed and comfortably moving
I am irreverently seismic and as inconstant as the wind
I am angry and irritable, my eyes fill with red
I am happy and ambitious, success happens like a Midas touch
I do not want to be what I am
I want to be what I was, am, and will be
But at last I am me

III.

You cannot force me down this spiral slide into a box of wood chips
I can see the puddle at the bottom, brown and murky
It has just rained and the light refracts from the metallic surface
It blinds and heats, and the humidity is palpable
If I sit much longer on top my thighs will burn
Simmering flesh and a sweaty brow
Letting go I slide and the metal grips my skin, squeaking me to a stop

Goldleaf

They bring me gilded things in prickly hands
and stroke my spine with vomit lines
that chill and daze in wonder.

There lies a loneliness in that embrace
that nothing buys and nothing frees;
it only shuts what’s empty.

What messengers have bloody rapier eyes
and skin like frozen lunar plains
that shroud the sun a moment?

I know what makes the blinded spirit bleed
when reaching out for greater things
to come and bloom within it.

Unfold the cage they’ve made of trembling arms;
not all that grasps will bind you down.
Put down your empty boxes.

Come fill me up with something I can feel
before my stomach shrivels up
in one great gush of hunger!

Damn Beautiful

Damn beautiful!
The rain falling so sublime
Idle chatter of demigods
Soft blanket and quiet repose
Glimmer of street lights
Reflecting on asphalt puddles
Serenely chaotic
Sensuous lullaby
Feel of comfortable omniscience
Regurgitated silence
King of man
Bane of nature
Fulfilling my existence at rest
Contemplating unbeknownst
Changing the world
Swiftly, deftly, now.

The Milk Maid

Have I forgotten myself?
Swept up in a delicious delirium of playful love?
Is it folly or future?
Am I fearful or inept?
What step to take or path to cross I know not
I cannot know for sure
I must put my neck to the guillotine and hope for mercy
Ann Boleyn is not me
I am Sir Francis Drake
Defender of the English country by sea
Destroyer of the Spanish Armada
How can a milk maid make me weak at the knees?
She is so fair
So joyful
She makes me happy like no Spanish galleon ever could
I would fight ten thousand fleets to see her smile
To feel her warm embrace
To touch those soft lips
Such tenderness the sea will never know
But I can know for a moment and it would be enough
A glance of affirmation would suffice as my heart yearns for sweetness
The sea has battered me and left my tongue dry and salty
It thirsts for a water of life that she only can give
A milk maid coming with her pail
I shall not wait for meat
Milk will suffice