Poem Spot - [ on the spot ]

Selective Lens

There are places, there are spaces
where the arrogant sun cannot see
with its glaring white light
and it declares
in the heavy poisoned pigments
of butterflies, they do not exist.
They are not real, and so only
in the minds of the multitudes
the caves, the cracks, the jewels
might slip by unnoticed.

I can sit in my chair
Looking down with a glare,
To whomever may dare
To sit there, before me.

With a simple light touch,
It being nothing much,
A will does bend and break,
As have others in my wake.

Take a deep breath,
breathe in, breathe in,
don't give in to any
rising panic.

My eyes dance across the universe,
and I breathe out stars.
The galaxy stretches so far;
don't the planets look diverse?

The moon shines like a tearful eye.
It flickers on the edge of the world,
Absorbing,
Then shining.
Receiving,
Then giving.
And so moonbeams fall like tears
Out onto this open field,
Where we stare up at the sky with wonder,
In awe of the heavens and their generosity,
Astonished by the releasing of their gifts
Just so creatures of the dirt can see during thickened, dark nights—
But they forget to look among themselves
And see themselves in the moon.

Truthing or Daring

bad vibes
are inevititable
we'll have them no matter what
grey skies are unbelievable
constant rain and some rust
if your car still has a bumper
it will get dinged and dented and scratched
it might even get torn right off or smashed
all the possessions in the world that are priceless
can be lit with a match or broken or cracked
but that doesnt mean anything
because souls are inpervious to all that
it takes the right state of mind to bring it all back

Little Room

I am breathing through
the sack over my head
in this room alone
mid-morning wash of light
down by my tied-up feet,

surrounded by wires and
people who don't understand,
people I don't understand, I ask
myself why things can't be different.

It's alright, it's alright, there's only
24 hours to midnight and
one solution possible. I have to gasp
through suffocating world-fabrics
even though I'd rather be elsewhere.
Even though I'd rather make elsewhere
in my mind.

There's no going about it.

Sometimes I add the entire bee movie script
to the blessed quote generator. Just to see
what happens when someone notices, and
knowing that they know that it was me.

Purple is the sensation of red grape skin bursting against sharp teeth;

Purple is the sound of waves against a rocky midnight shore;

Purple is the taste of sweetened squash purée, or a hidden sip of wine;

Purple is the feel of smooth lake water brushing between outstretched fingers;

Purple is the smell of incense burning, mixed with brown, at church service;

Purple is the sound of a comforting lullaby sung before bed, settling like a blanket;

Purple is mysterious, comforting, luxurious, arousing, beautiful.

There's something different about the sun,
how it never changes all the day long
but my perspective does--
Maybe it's because
the heart inside of it beats like a gong
yet with one tiny flutter, my heart is done.

How can you expect me to write
sensationalist literature? Media
that even the greats would ignore
during my time, and then praise
after I passed on as a champion
of the era.