Malleable skins

Malleable skins

There is a radical symmetry
Of falling in love in spring
It characterizes your entire relationship

Like passion for the dove
Beyond pheromones, hormones, gender
Every time we make love for
Love’s sake alone, I find you
Rediscovered like the sap of us

The man and woman of tumbling
The kidding and prodding for a deeper aesthetics
That to say, we are unified

In ideas, lips, values, family chores
It’s the skin of our brains becoming
Accustomed to all this
Here are days that I walk through
But I cannot hold them, and that’s the beauty

Of love’s cyclic offering
It’s divine intervention to fall in love.

Into the Cosmos

Into the Cosmos

Behind me, where all the stars are shown
I’m nobody, but a flower of immortality
Across the night-blue space
Eternity collects her wears

Married to an immense unknown
Myself, well I’m a term in-between
Wondering about the cosmic laws
Death is but a drift in my eastern gray

And when confronted in silence face to face
I can’t help but wonder, how small the
Things of man, how dissolved the next dawn
How ludicrous to care so much

For dreams of dreams that do not last
O I’ve been a doubter of the light
In perfect pauseless monarchy
But the night is a beauty that marches on

A dateless dynasty of what comes next
And that’s the duplicate divinity
In a world sown so fast by history
A couple more decades, centuries

And the heart of the cosmos, may find us there
To bring miracles before women
And say that midnight is a place we’ve been
And that, we can innovate
The good that is the True.

Love-Designed

Love-Designed

I got a tattoo from God, it’s invisible
But glows when I’m in need
You can’t see it, it’s inexplicable

A design of everywhere, intelligent design
Of whom I was created to become
After all, I was put on this Earth
And I went along with it, quite gladly

Without a plan, but I believe I was
Evolved & that my genes are a culmination
Of how I love the rain, or, why poetry

Speaks in my ears, though I don’t appreciate
Music or paintings or graphic design
I’ve always wanted to write a poem
That felt like a Tattoo from God

Though I’m sceptical of the Bible
And religious texts that people quote
I’d prefer something more abstract

Or beautifully living, like a Sufi ideal of service
Or how the Tao encompasses mystery
I got a tattoo from Evolution, but that’s another story.

Price of Poems

Price of Poem-Making

They say art is the greatest escape
Into the right hemisphere
Some do not find their way out
From the dream, and poverty

I can relate, to how
Writing is a compulsion
With a high investment fee
It’s time spent in freedom, however

A necessary joy of thought
It’s contemplation
As a pioneer, one part philosopher
One part, entertaining

Poetry is not a recognized art form
It hides behind the scenes
It dribs and drabs and drags
On the alt circuit, mostly unseen

Literary journals are not read
By many people, though strangely
Poems summarize the human condition
Better than fads of music, trends of painting

Glories of architecture, marvels of dance
Better even than the twisted sense of novels
Those characters are all but forgotten
But poems never die

They float on the cosmos of the web
In archives of portals of the ancient internet
Where nobody goes anymore
In the future, poems are spoken not written.

When Machines Learn to Write Poems

When Machines Learn to Write Poems

Words unspoken spill
On to virtual pages
Dreams encapsulate poems

Poems selling dreams of paradise
Speculations of the infinite
Heroes of art telling commentary

Reviving in waters
Inscribed in the cuneiform
Of writing on tablets of steel

Capsules of poetic chronicles
Burning the trials of lost tribes
Into the future where language

Will travel at speeds between stars/
Trying to break surfaces
Of quantum beliefs in illusion

Engaged in poetics we’ll spill
The puzzles of machine-learners
Instead of primitive opinions

Poetry will be their thirsty key
To understanding humanity.

Inspired by: Mark Olynyk, contemporary Canadian poet.

(When hope has no face)

It Asked a Crumb of Me

Hope is the thing that catches you
When you have children
It perches in your soul like

A quiet song, you cannot explain it
Faith has feathers without words
It’s simple, profound

And has a quality that never stops
Its flight traverses dawns
Hope is a quality of purpose

To have a future is enough
Little birds must content with
All the dangers, just like you

Hope is not found in all
The parts of this world, some resent it
Others have reset it, it lingers

In the back of our minds
Even when storms have come
Hope inches you forward
Sore from tragedies, it brings you
Your people, and sometimes

That is enough to get through another day
Sometimes nobody comes
And you must go inside
To find the peace of the strangest sea
To find crumbs of divinity.

Title Embedded Below

We Worship perfect because we can’t have it

Language, it has allowed me to dream
I’ve never done anything but dream
All experience is a simulation
Of what our senses tell us

We perceive, all relationships
Are 80% make believe
And thus, I come to the point
Where my ultimate concern

Is naturally, for my inner life
Is the book of disquiet over?
Is the meaning found that escaped me?
Are the idols ready to be pushed aside?

And the myths, are they ready
To succumb to new myths, new standards?
To make way for the new
Language, it has allowed me to feel

I’ve never done anything but feel
All thoughts have a quality of feeling
Objectivity is the greatest lie
But subjectivity is an ironic dreamer

Full of queer promises and casual observations
That do not register fully until years later
That I take a certain pleasure in the fact
Of watching daydreams go down in defeat

Words like any truth, are part duality
And what once seemed like a clever remark
Can later feel like the ghost of an imaginary friend.

Let me Count the Poets Left

Let me Count the Poets Left

You must not assume what I assume
You must not hold the sun between your eyes
You must not face the rapture alone
The waves of the future sink us
You will become obsolete
Can you endure that?

In fact, inject giraffes into your poems?
It will not be enough
As writers we skirt the issues of skirts
We duck the bullets of sense
We hide from the music of life
Yet we thrive living aloud with words

We thrive because fundamentally
We have no destination, we are the speakers
For the living, voice of our times
We relish in the fact, like contemporary
Truly bad contemporary poets
We can be the head-butting poem on Facebook
Nobody can afford to read again.

In order to understand

In order to understand

It’s quarter after three, in my life
That’s a lot of life gone
That’s, a lot of life left

I’ve learned to listen
To the notes in the margin
Before the pages are
Completely erased
Everything lingers with me

In my heart, the world works
In mysterious ways, we are all
Perfect strangers, and perfectly familiar

The poets are eccentric and figures
I’ve rarely conversed with, sure
I’ve read dead ones and the like
Literature is after all

The most agreeable way of ignoring life
And it’s not, that I’m consciously
Trying to ignore my life
Life is beautiful and mixed up

While my past is everything I failed to be
My future makes my soul impatient
Everything interests me
But nothing holds me

Dreaming all the while
Both my soul and I
Keep our distance
I wake up early in the morning

Only to find it takes me
A long time getting
Ready to exist, so here we go

We never love anyone, no
We love the idea we have of someone
Strangely, it’s our own concepts
Our own imaginary ideas

That we love, intrinsically
We are dumb like that
And in order to understand
Ourselves, we have to die to ourselves

It’s philosophy existentially
And the experience of the
Soul’s hidden orchestra
I know the instruments
All I can hear now is symphony.