Category: Existential Poetry

I used to know a man
whose hair was the curl of a wave
and whose eyes carried the burnt browns flecks
of mangos in the sun.

He lived in a city, one made of plaster,
and with streets lined with roving shadows.

He and these shadows
once meandered through this city,
pooling in and out of buildings
like oil through coral reefs.

There were prizes given
to whomever—and the man
set his eyes down
in order to chase them—to chase them
day and night,
filling his life’s hours
with—

What, really? Is what this man asked
himself one day when fighting with a pigeon.
Whose bread is this, really?
And whose flesh?

Upset, this man took to the tallest
sky-knifing building, and screamed—
oh, he screamed so loud his pain
tore open his lips.

His first words, his first ever.
But the city was moving, you see,
with trains and cars and the business
of business, that in no way could be stopped
or silenced to listen.

He was a gargoyle on the edge,

and he despaired
like whales drowning in plastic bottles
that held nothing for them, or anyone.

But in that abyss,
that deep gut,
he felt the rising of something,
something tough,

something large and growing,
stretching and blowing
bigger and bigger until

it was the stem of dandelion,
crowned in gold and good faith.
It poked from the crack of a concrete grave.

At that moment, the man knew
it was his, and that his time in this city
had come to its end,

that his mango eyes once set down,
and curly haired shed,
were to be lost to the sirens,
the shrieking blue and reds.

Now, growing from nothing but death,
was his hour to ascend

and soak the rays of sunlight
with the strength
only a little flower has.

There’s a hole in my heart
where the stars should be.

Although I try to fill it
with people, with activities,

I’m always shy
of getting there—

No. In actuality,
I am an infinite distance away.

My smile lingers on the event horizon,
a ghostly thing,

while the rest of me is beyond
the touch

of anyone, or anything.

I deleted your messages
because they were too beautiful;

it was painful
being so understood.

I thought, I could do this on my own,
this life with its loneliness—

but I misunderstood
this life,
and how absolute

its loneliness.

Now I’m here on a stoop,
wishing,

I never deleted
the only things left of you.

Sometimes you have to separate
from your writing.

Treat it like a clingy lover;
put some distance
between yourself
and their morning breath.

Stick too close to it and
eventually the bad is all you’ll see.

                          But back up—watch
your writing saunter down the street.
Note how quickly the hounds come
for its curves and fertility.

Allow yourself to be
a little jealous.

You’ll quickly learn
to move past the trivialities,
to once again

see
the electric rawness that upturned
the mundane world and made it beautiful,
and then you’ll feel

a tightening in the hot loins
of your mind.