My unsad heart likes to overflow


My unsad heart likes to overflow

I don’t how to be truly sad
Nor do I know how to be truly happy
My range is extraordinary

In moments, and unexpectedly so
But in general, I’m
An emotional lie that walks
I don’t talk very much
But my face has a heart

And my sleeves have flowers
But finally there is no difference
Emotion is a social conduit

Fine, it’s trampled me asunder
Like a poem that never ends
All these faces remind me
Of phrases I haven’t written yet
I’m alive in florescence

Unified in theory, divided
In the shyness and immaturity
I don’t know how to be truly social

Nor do I yearn to be truly
Not alone: it’s hard to define identity
Like a uselessly full glass of ourselves.

40

Children from Zones of Paradise


Sørkjosen

The Stars express around
Our fates like dwindling destiny
The Sun and Moon make their haste
Across our skies of personality

Why would that which is within
Not be without, and visa versa?
Of finer famines, I do not know
Astronomy and esoteric astrology

That points and shows, cosmic datastreams
That life’s nutrition is a matrix of relationships
Aspects, conjunctions, transits
These were the silver chronicles

Of the poor & far, patterns of our hearts
The veins and tissues of our baselines.