Discontent

Discontent splashes around
like rain on the pavement;
the cold cuffs of my jeans
unable to dry before
I brave the weather again.

A nagging something,
somewhere towards the back,
something I should have written,
bought or brought or made new,
a game plan for get going
time’s a’wastin’, make it now,
make it happen,
leap, swallow, and fake it till.

It’s a should have said
more than hello
and four best friends
slipping through your fingers.
Don’t see much of you anymore.
You don’t get to,
cause I’m at healthy now,
and you're not there yet.
Unvitation inrequired.

Give me a sec’, I’m saving the world.
Now, from top to bottom,
how can I make this situation better?
G-R-O-W-ing.

What more?

I made an Easter egg that looked like the Earth.

Studies in Texture

A Preponderance of Conversational Topics

The universe says go.
It says God is in Connecticut,
it says fame is in New York,
it says abundance is in India,
it says prosperity is in Canada,
it says possibility is in Austin,
it says everything is in San Francisco.
It says I’m wasted here.
It says go.
But God is in my bookcase,
fame is in the mailbox,
abundance is in my gas tank,
prosperity is off Henderson Pass,
possibility is in my back pocket,
and everything is close at hand.
Yesterday I leapt the abyss,
(two days after lasik
she sat outside smoking and reading
in pollen-heavy wind;
windows to whose fucking soul?)
perhaps I have further yet to go.
I spin again.
Patience personified:
let the universe come to you.
Ambition introduced:
put in an application.
Spin.
I have trouble pronouncing banal,
but I’ve scheduled to push my
boundaries next Wednesday.
Aren’t the little sinkholes enough?
Must there be landsides?
Spin.
She sits after the riot,
the silent air between us.
Two million miles would
have been closer.
Fine, I’ll go to San Francisco,
prairie dog holes or no.
I’m a fucking cosmic transmitter.
Just let me check the mail.
Spin.
“I found God,” she says.
“I found God,” she says.
“I’m beginning to understand the prophet’s voice,” says I.
It’s deep.
Get it?

Quote of the Day

Poets are soldiers that liberate words from the steadfast possession of definition.
–Eli Khamarov