Everything happens so much

                                            

i am often overwhelmed by a vast number of strong and rooted things i cant think logically, i cant have hopes and build with some stability, everything happens so much.

and they pile one over the other, a simultaneous ever occurrence of chaotic things, and a vast and achingly empty tyrant silence, everything happens so much. 

and i stand here and the ways with which to ease, to scrap up some bits of hardly found calmness are so unlikely, so unconventional, so repulsive and disliked, this is not the way i was told it happens, should happen. everything happens so much.

and so a day begins or ends and the infinitesimal and enormous things in-between both concrete, visible and just scattered in the air. things happen that you know of and that you never will but they both happen so often, as massively and congruently and consecutively in an outpour manner, everything happens so much.

all i will ever do or be or hope to do or be is just a human form of open arms as thing  fall upon me. 

Bitter Dancer

you are just a figure

and you say a few lovely things

and there is a lingering possibility between us

and we can both sense this lurking little lizard

swim in the plain of air amongst

our flickering bodies

we try to catch it

or kill it

or some fucking thing.

it is unbearable to feel.

and we come to question

what within us

is really fo significance

what is true and tragic

and mendable and useable

and what

is dear to the heart

only because

it lives within it

it is hard

very hard to live with the dancing maybe

that tiptoes on our chests

when we are tiered of it all

tiered of meeting and trying and greeting

and thinking and reading

and writing and building

and sailing

and marching forth like there is a ground

and a journey

and a destination

like we are not

floating in the space of emptiness

everyone choose to look away from

i would like that little lizard

to grown into a bridge

between my little chest and yours

the maybe can tiptoe no more

another one

i am tiered.

what if i sleep

will i write a poem when i wake up?

i'l probably wake up too late

and go to college

and laugh with my friends

hear something interesting or two

contemplate

sit with all my weight

on the nudging

knocking

darkness.

go home

as the car drives closer

the weight i put peals it's self

i watch it unravel

take over

spend all day

trying to fit it in the 

tight knit dress 

of a poem

get tiered

really

fucking

tired

and go to sleep.

its a tiny little flame

it's a tiny little flicker

it fades and fades.

Metal arch.

interpretation of fleet foxes's meadowlark:

Metal arch, fly away down.
i hold a cornucopia in the golden crown
for you to wear upon your fleeting frown.
 a metal arch cling to me.

Hummingbird, just let me die.
inside the broken ovals of your olive eyes.
I do believe you gave it your best cry.
A hummingbird, sing to me.

my hummingbird. sing to me.
I dont believe a word
that i have heard.
little children laughing
at the boys and girls
the metal arch singing
 to you each and everyday
the arch light on the hillside
 they mock it and pray.

the original lyrics: http://www.songmeanings.net/songs/view/3530822107858719341/

concrete

all things
flip and flop
and come and
disappear
and their fading still clinched
bits clung
in mid air
ache me
furiously

blue spotted tail

to write a poem
because
 it is
apparently
significant.
it may be merely
more manifestation
of
the
'human ego'
you desperately try to leave some
waste
a stain
like it is annihilating
audacious
of the earth to
naturally
 go on
after your departure.

but i too go on
and i let out a poem
because
just because i am aware
it is the doing of an ego
doesnt mean i wont be inclined
to sucumb
and so i exhale into the medium of space
around me
and try to catch one of the
left over
flaying little thoughts
and emotions


i try to dress her
into something
subtly attractive
the oozing starched old
washed out sky blue
polka dot dress i like
the beloved
so all those around would stop
to hear the breath that has come out of me
i
hideously
find this breath
especially precious
it has inhabited my chest

a breath i
in truth
inhaled
from the frightened
exhausted
quiet
exhale of some other




but right now
and
this isnt sad
or tragic
this isnt a loss
of any sort
it is just
there isnt
any distinguised breath to hold.
i have breathed consequtivly
massively
into nothingness
there isnt something to catch
and trap
in a the remnants of a dress
and say
her is my poem
here is my poetry.
i remain as i am
lovely
in theory.
but clenched and uncomfortable
and
unpleasant
to see.

while his wife is reading, he sits to think:

maybe the fact

that i wake up longing to die

is evolution.

maybe this global necessity to

inhale and

throw your self

off a bridge

is an implanted

sorrow

by the crept in roots of

natural selection.

because the earth is heavy with man

and man made

stuff 

frilly and scattered

on it's burrid surfaces

no longer do

the plastids of chlorophyl

burst

the earth 

enraged

punches within you

death

you grow

heavy with lament

let go of your body

decay and decompose

into stuff of

the ground

little bits of 

damp

dirt

less you

less man

more earth

and stability

and homeostasis.

evolution. 

things like

'global quiet grace

and peaceful stillness'

is almost built

on cruelty.