My only final I’m excited, - nay, even remotely interested in is my poetry chapbook…sigh, finals.
La senteur des
Cigarettes froid
Danse près de mon nez,
Et
Est-ce que vous vous souvenez?
Voyez,
La senteur de la fumée vieille mêle
Avec les fleur-de-lys du jardin
Et les enfouissements de garbage.
Elle nage sur la brise du printemps
Quelquefois descendante
le metro
et chauffe.
Le senteur change ici,
Dans mon souvenir: électricité,
Et métal frottement
Sur métal brûle.
Elle danse un petit ballet,
Ici,
Voyez
C’est Paris
A moi.
(found image)
I am a tree.
Remember that time that we
were such friends?
Oh, do you remember then?
Reading old letters
And crying a little.
Wondering what happened…
Barely a year ago.
Where is that person now?
What hole swallowed my friend?
What vacuum sucked the you right out of you?
What is this that’s left?
Beautiful soul, where have you gone?
And what shall I do without you?
All the colors of your presence,
Have faded now to shades of gray,
The tether-like connection we had has gone away,
The bond between us crumbles,
The remnants a monument;
Marking on our hearts the place where
Whimsical moments once were.
You’re there,
Now,
Being whoever it is that you are,
Wearing your tinfoil suit,
And your boxing gloves,
You’re safe; you’re real,
Any memory I have was fake.
Toss and turn
Roll yourself over
Face down
Loose limbs
Grow them tenser
Roll yourself over
Slightly lift the curtain
Peak from behind the veil
Throw off apathy like a blanket.
Over-gripping philosphy
When I should be ripping
apart me
and rebuilding
Evaluate each brick
Assess each bearing wall
Deciding to make myself how tall?
Searching for my definition
instead of loosing myself in my own skin
Grasping for sense of validity
Lacking all tenses of lucidity
Which in turn condenses my certainty
In other words
What’s any of this mean to me?
I don’t know.
The smell of chilled
cigarettes
dances around mon nez
eh
Est-ce que vous vous souvenez?
Do you remember?
See,
the scent of old smoke mixes
with the lillies of the garden
and the landfills of the garbage.
It swims on a spring breeze
sometimes down
into le metro
and warms up.
The scent here changes.
In my memory: electricity
and metal friction
on metal burning
Il danse un petit ballet,
ici,
You see
C’est Paris
a moi - to me.
Surrounds - almost buries
Modest
Grows close to the ground.
Not so strangely
associated with magic brew,
in the right dosage
it relieved deathlike stupor
even the pain of claims including a sometimes given anguish
- at times taken down from the cross
so escaping their lives.
Society
(re-blogged from my non-class tumblr)
Just watched the tree of life, and the only thing I liked about it was the stunning visuals.
What will it really be like?
What is at great-end?
The long, empty still of silence,
Sweet reunion with a long lost friend,
Unprecedented fire and violence,
Floating endlessly on a cloud,
Constant thoughts though never aloud,
Swirling magic of cosmic bliss,
Returning for another try at this.
What will it really be like,
When I lay down for the big sleep,
What will become of the secrets I keep?
Whom will I rejoin and who will I meet?
What will it be like at great end?
A question I can’t answer,
A seam I can’t mend,
I will leave though just what I can:
That is that souls will find rest then.
