Category: Existential Poetry

I will always be here, a stone of the world,
but you will move on
as the wind moves on
as the seasons move on
as the stars and the night move on
and disperse into various
clouds and ideas and desires

and you will move on
as everyone does
as every child
moves from womb into world into death
and death into matter into fetus
and passion into boredom into despair
and into new embraces of arms between legs around waists

and you will sit for a while
and you will move
on but I
will always be here, a stone of the world.  

The library staff changed
and my heart grew a little colder.

Not bitterly cold—just room temperature water
pooled when crying in the tub for too long.

The library staff changed,
just when I wanted to share a crazy idea:
that maybe my poetry had a place
there among the authors.

I knew a guy, a bigshot library guy—
thought I’d make him my messiah, but
the library staff changed,
and I witnessed an interview.

I could tell from the prospect’s face
that she knew about the change,
and that it was coming again soon,
and that home

was a crazy idea.

I’m sitting on the front steps of a lovely church. To the right of me are jade leaves entranced by the rolling of a warm breeze. Birds on branches are chirping a medley that creates a symphonic membrane around the intersection, a visually imperceptible emotive field that cars pierce through with their hurry. Engines rumble as they meld with the horizon. Their echoes fade, then more take their place. The day continues, but it’s nice right here where I am. On these steps, I rest—on these steps, my place next to the leaves.

I think that in this world
it is best to find a little
happiness.

Leaves and trees fall and wither
with the rain and snow.

Those flashes of bright spring,
the pretty smile and sunlit eyes,
they fade with time.

What lingers is strife,
the inertia that demands
greater and greater energy from us.

We are like flowers,
vibrant with starry power—
until it’s all used up,
and what is left is disorder.

So, we should use this moment
and the miraculous organ of the mind
to make sense of our time,
and find reasons to love,
and reasons to smile.

At the end of the day,
night arrives
and our joys become
cricket hymns.