Dedicated to my best Romanian friend Vasile
you are so beautiful
as no word can describe you as
your beauty is unique
your beauty is untouchable
your beauty is adorable
but you are so beautiful
as no word can describe you as
(Inspired by a photo.)
We accept the love we think we deserve, but why do we only accept that which hurts?
Is it because we think that they should love us, as much as we love
ourselves?
They can try to show us that we deserve so much more, but inside we will always believe that something this good can only be untrue.
Is it a hoax? What are you going to do?
This just doesn’t feel right, we’re through.
Now tell me, do you turn back to his screaming, because you think
that’s what you deserve?
Or is it because you think he knows you better then anyone else? Do
you turn back to him because it’s odd without his presence near?
Dry your tears, you are much more than what you’re crediting yourself for, nothing is never too good to be true.
It just depends on you.
Imagine, briefly, a world. Not
the one fifty years ago.
Not the once-murderous lynch
mobs and the damage done.
Not the one a hundred years ago,
tenements and squalor.
Or the one a revolution ago,
full of rebellion and cause.
Maybe just the world that features
a tree, some earth, a quiet
world where people speak kindly,
always offer,
and only refuse when necessary.
Passion is my action, aware of my transaction.
Eyes are watching, shadows crossing, beware that you are casting.
No need to lie needle in your eye, hearts crossed and no more
laughing.
Seriousness becomes my masking, two worlds begin a clashing.
While false hopes unwind I crawl through time, to save my everlasting!
The time to have put away
certain memory foamed longings
may have already passed
years ago. Sitting in driveways
(always someone else’s)
and staring at the damage
of front lawns
made a mockery of by cell phone towers
in the distance
transforming simplicity
by stunting our dreams, lost roads
and small blessings- all that the photo eye
can take in.
As children we were never able
to make the necessary separations
between our experience of a place
and the actual inertness of the ground.
To be many worlds apart from the familiar
can send our loss back
to its competing history,
when was I here last?
And who was I then? And what now?
I notice there are fine lines
and burdens that cost more
than direct devastation,
yet still something very serious,
I think, is slipping out, a beyond-
where reach will become
no longer possible, for us.
I’ve got no less
than three running
simultaneously
as if this is a race
of thought and hand
across a page and
heaven’s the end.
