restless things

4.23.

it was the "after" i looked for. ate rice & more, then, i shifted into
the outside to wander about. then, stood to wonder about
the moon's phase. today its gaze was half-closed, half-
opened, kept beyond but contained joy. i seen joy elsewhere,
so i remembered what it looked like here. thrice it seemed,
airplanes created mazes to trail into, probably flying
far to find the center in a world wide. or make their own
one with false clouds shot out, gooey after a sickened breeze. i
followed them. then met the center of the sunset. finally,
blue rolled on top of orange, play-fighting, tickling day to
wheeze it's final breath, overtaking with not a mercy,
but with care. orange succumbed to rest: this anticipation meditated
between, cradled, the two of them. blue submerged into rest, then they both
closed their eyes until it went dark. into a dark very loving even in a
sleep.
the moon the stars the eyes phase in & out the seams of
forever (always)
after.

Spoiler

i saw the sunset today after eating lunch & felt things.

4.24

festival next door
and so i wandered endlessly
over yonder, my feet clapped
on the boulder, for the bold
soon, i will see you once more.

4.25.

still (just) us

there are bones deep in the past still
here: just buried in time that makes us
here. though one bone to eat, & it's mist
deep in us, thin through nothing. it's never
there to be mined. we forget & fade in
& out, be dusty theme-parks, but earth
trusts itself, so its rust begone into gold. rain
is the pathway to a truth, but our hands
block it to make our own walkways. wish
my tears could be that open, but they're just
a thing from things; many things that just
makes a world this world now. we claim the
otherworldly as signs for our living, while
dirt bleeds in the bodies we made for it.
nobody forbid never make churches
to believe in, but still, heat burns paint
into fairy dust. and this pain we feel
in our temples enlighten a fire we mistake
as a soul, since our sense of self believes in
a core that isn't just a system of pure
muscle. we want to be a world. so
we lurch cars into highways now
and don't stop at the light that tells
you to love everybody else as a rule. surely

a universe & earth, parallels to equal us,
or who we will be, is worth to keep
enveloped for the next past? but,
we don't have to apologize for anything
not even when we thought "thank you's"
meant nothing else can hurt you now
like the ocean we made as a cockpit
for our notes so diseased, vermin
but unkind for earth. this might just be
why we love to be owed to and be loved
as an obligation. we're just a human out of
human. wish

i could make
this body a world instead.

Spoiler

i have replies i need to reply too gbnjgngg im sos orryr!!! for my!!! lateness!!! i have the replies in my draft but have been (rather too slowly...) making replies for each comment i've gotten that i haven't replied too. which is four comments (yikes sunny) i'm so sorryryryr!!!!

anyways. jee this poem was wayy more longer than i thought. i wrote like half of it in the notepad then copy-and pasted it here and yeahhhh! that's a lot. but goodness, this poem quickly strayed towards so sooo many things that i basically rambled about. Not so #regulated of you sunny. i'm a plain mess!

4/26.

the red sun

i saw the sun  the reddest
it's ever been on one day.
didn't even know it could
be that much of fresh blood
bleeding in the sky when it's
not writing a pitch for its
death poem, or mourning life.
no— i remember
the sun is   a husk of red
the   gentlest brush
feigning goodbye
fading in, or out. now this
this was a ripen apple, no miracle,
just somehow living as the earth
smoked itself out until its smoke
became a shower of steam.
heaving & heaving in & out
until it just
lived it out.

that's why my breath
shortened as a
cough.

Spoiler

i still think about this experience sometimes. thought the sun was so "beautiful", then i realized it was a symptom of a wildfire choking everybody.

4.27

wash me (dry)

things will always keep happening.
keep thrown stones
  clean-cut dry through waterfalls; life doesn't halt
for water. things move: on my body,
fuzz on the rag, fall with me, i hope my body
be grassy lands, whistling sunflowers, blowing through
its teeth to grow, elated for long. strung
on my face, vigorous hands,
i hope to smooth in rough edges, share
my secrets rounded in a crunched paper ball.
water droplets frolic to the end of the
elbow, singing to my wrist, my arm, on its way
to sink. what matter in the air lasts,
that you squint to find, moves to nowhere
you can feel. i wish silent sparks in my eyes
were stars.

4.28.

float

hands above to feel /
arms reach to plunge
into air. wrists bond
to leap / fingers sewn
blurs, like fairies
themselves are the
secret. mountains
my back arches into /
my belly a bent table for
no plates to settle on.
there are villages still
in me, and they raise
my childish feet.
meaning, time natters
early divorce / hey
do we matter at all
or things are just made
so? calendars /
footsteps / a soul / brains /
dummy / a body could
fly
if it wants to.

4.29.

so it rains again

the rain hushed for a shallow breath
unraveled from the chest, at last to feel
itself exist in summer heat, in spring's
wake. it seems a body peels itself,
if a body sun-kissed, to live without sun
for a moment—and air evolved to keep what's left
of an after, without it being burnt. after the rain,
the body became something hollowed out to be
stranded in anticipation, while these clouds still
was a storm eyeing what else has been
left open, and drink from it, to fill
it more.

until the rain came again, made footsteps a stranger
to the ground, to make the body realize
you could mind to be a little open too
for its wash to shift to everywhere,
everything, in
you.

Spoiler

i was stumped for the whole day, i think its obvious here.

4.30.

restless things

even in my sleep i'm wide awake; breathe in the curiosity of wild comets, feel burns of a thousand fleeing dreams on my skin. smashed gnats bleed dry as stamps of my failed prayers; these blemishes i've dug in made me a tarnished poppy field. i just can't get out of my skin no matter how much i ask with hands or bruises. i sulk over my ribs, a parsonage for punished ruins, somehow bearing the heaviness of being weak. how can i say everything but do so little with it? i never realize until i'm surprised at how much i can make a storm in me out of stillness. this world is just some vampire slowly being killed by the sun, so i make my head spin to make the day perish, let it dissolve into a dusty artifact for trash. i think i crunch ice to smooth my hot throat—i never went to the doctor for my sickness, so the mucus made a home out of my lack of will to care about living. either way, i'm not okay, until i am. i should be angry, but i'm too used to being in a barrel to be drank from; this anger is so bottled in me, there is nothing else in to hold my madness towards you. nobody ever listens to me, not even my reflection, or my gut that sees a future without a clear response. how much can i be truthful without lying about being entirely honest, to make you comforted? at least what i know of me is me that is made up of pain, and that couldn't even make me interesting enough to be liked. at least what i know of me is that i am nobody, even while with somebody. everyone is a blurred spot i hate because i can never see them clearly. my contradictions are repetitive, and i spill on the same spot over and over. sometimes, i imagine a future conversation with my former best friend. think about how much they've moved on to have a life, while it's still the same for me since they've met me. even in a change, there is nothing moving. i miss the fireflies, those lanterns of my childhood guiding me to a star i could hold in my palms. i probably won't even make it through May to hold a single poppy.