Poetry 2

Time is Whack

Riding your bike on campus
blazing and fizzing with your yellow shirt on,
I watch you navigate your way through a field of young, budding, intelligences.
Intellectuals.
You wiz by them like a shooting star.
They are startled and don’t manage to make a wish in time.
I say time is whack.
I make wishes on you for them.
When you crash into a tiny girl wearing grey I feel bad,
I was too distracted wishing to be able to shout out and warn you.





Exploration of the Soul

Point your kaleidoscope at the ground.
Inspect the grass like they are binoculars.
Engrave the intimacies of the ant-villagers’ monuments on your foot as you explore.
Go under, go through.
You are Hernando Cortez!
Scrutinize everything as if on a caffeine high:
Your eyes are peeled. Keep peeling.
Unravel until you have found your very core.
At the hub of your eye your being will address itself.





On the metro, when everything is screeching and clanking,
I let my eyes rest lightly closed
and my face falls
relaxed and serene
and I like to remember being with you.





I am waiting inside of the bombshelter where we had agreed to meet
and you are not here.

My innards are grinding themselves into a delicate powder that both looks, and feels, like dust.

and [so] i spiral-climb
to the very top
so that i can better look down
and search
for the decrepit chapel
which houses the relics of
our love.





That chocolate cake was thick and chocolatey and I liked it a lot even though
mr-droppy-eyes didn’t.
But he doesn’t even count because you didn’t lean out the window for him when he came through the gate-
and you did for me.





“come on. come on. comeonbabylightmyfire”
just follow him-
he can wind you through the graves easier and you will find what you are looking for much much faster.
-will you?