Under a Screen of Stars
what we would be like,
how we would act,
what we would think about
if our only distraction was
the monolithic moon
that parades through the
battle-worn window of
my 1996 Mitsubishi?
If our only worry
was that the chaste November
air would burn
too cold too soon causing
the fall-kissed leaves to
shrivel,
leave their branches,
and die a beautiful death
under our feet?
Do you ever wonder
if we would see a different
world outside of this
smudgy window
given no phenomenal HD
picture to compare it with?
Would the stars scream
louder?
Would the mountains flood
with violets?
Would the wind smell like
mint?
Would the grass scratch like
wool?
Would rocks fluff like
pillows?
Would clouds run like
zebras?
Would weeds bloom like
tutus?
Would tulips sing like
crickets?
Would dirt melt like wax?
Would the rain taste like
freedom?
Would thunder tickle like
joy?
Would earthquakes roar like
passion?
Would heat waves freeze like
love?
Do you? Do you ever wonder?
Armageddon
The sky is falling.
The sun has shattered,
dispersed into the galaxy
yet people on Earth are
still lolling
as if the planets aren’t
calling
“Mercy!” “Mercy!”
The sky is falling.
Saturn’s rings are spiraling
out of control, begging
pity.
Yet people on Earth are
still lolling
as if Jupiter’s scalding
soil hasn’t melted into a
polar sea.
The sky is falling.
Mercury’s moons are brawling
death, weak and dreary,
yet people on Earth are
still lolling
as if the Ozone isn’t
walling
the world’s last story.
The sky is falling,
yet people on Earth are
still lolling.
Deus benedicat tibi amicus meus
The conceited light sprinting out of my
desk lamp makes my eyes feel as if they have
been freeze dried and chopped into tiny
pieces with a fork. The lead sticking out of my
mechanical pencil makes a foul noise
when it dirties my binder paper sounding
like rusty nails scratching a brand new,
untouched mirror. The haughty air screaming from
the heating vent teases my skin causing
my pores to secrete confused seeds of sweat
which, in turn, humidify my body
into a forgotten pile of seasoned
vegetables that have been sitting in the
microwave for three and a half whole days.
Right now, your body is draped in white sheets.
Your tortured black hair is smooth, by your face.
Your once opaque cheeks now burn without heat.
Your sharp lips are indented with red lace.
Corpus meum ardet cum jactura tua’s.
The cancerous demon that invades your body has signed an armistice with God. It reads:
I, Wormwood, hereby agree
To leave the body of Miss Holly
On Earth. In turn, her soul will
Be presented to the hooves of
Our Father Down Below.
But it is my body that burns with the loss of yours.
I saw Heaven standing open and there before me
was a white horse, whose rider is called
Faithful and True.
The apostle John says that justice will
judge when He comes back.
That the Devil will be forced
to decimate every innocent contract.
The armies of heaven were following him.
Out of his mouth comes a sharp sword
with which to strike down…
Hell.
I turn off my desk lamp,
drop my mechanical pencil,
and walk away from the heating vent.
A frigid breeze threads through the drapes
and I curl up under clouds of down comforters.
Corpus meum ardet cum jactura tua’s.
I surrender unto an all-consuming sleep.
Deus benedicat tibi amicus meus.
As I surrender unto sleep,
I pray.
God bless you, my friend.
The Battle at Marathon
A dense fog slithers between
skyscrapers and anxious bodies.
It manifests an assiduous
stench of patience, persistence.
Thousands of murmurs
circulate through my ears,
then rest on the tops of my
shoes and tips of my fingers.
This is it,
I think, staring up and down miles of people.
The corners of the sun
haven’t yet breeched the horizon,
and yet my insides are a
welling inferno.
The back of my neck drips
sweet beads of contentment.
Anxious bodies have become
overwhelmingly eager,
ready to break through the
gates of the unknown.
Exhaustion, bliss, angst,
ecstasy all wait patiently beyond,
prying on our naiveté, our
hope, our diligence.
A dismal road taunts me; its
speckled cement hardens with every step.
The gates draw nearer. Exhaustion,
bliss, angst, and ecstasy attack.
Psalm 139: A Pantoum
I am a sinner.
Oh Lord, you have searched
me and you know me.
Because of this, I fear you.
Where can I flee from your
presence?
Oh Lord, you have searched
me and you know me.
You know that I am
conflicted.
Where can I flee from your
presence?
I am ashamed.
You must know that I am
conflicted.
You created my inmost being.
You know me better than I
know myself.
Your eyes saw my unformed
body.
You created my inmost being.
Why am I so quick to turn
against you?
Your eyes saw my unformed
body.
Why is it so hard to bare my
soul?
Why am I so quick to turn
against you?
How precious to me are your
thoughts, o God!
Why is it so hard to bare my
soul?
I was woven together in the
depths of the earth.
How precious to me are your
thoughts, o God!
Despite my faults, you
instilled love in me.
I was woven together in the
depths of the earth.
That love will never fail.
Despite my faults, you
instilled love in me.
Search me, o God, and know
my heart.
Your love will never fail.
Lead me in the way
everlasting.
Search me, o God, and know
my heart.
With this request, I fear
you.
Lead me in the way
everlasting.
For I am a sinner.
Disease in War
News reached us that they
were coming for war;
ordered us to make a new
home inside the city walls.
My eyes fell upon him—torn
with sleep and trembling
at the mercy of disease.
My heart tightened,
struggled to beat at the thought of his death.
Oh the irony that mocked his
perfect innocence.
We were stuffed inside, all
the Athenian innocents.
Exasperated weeping echoed
through the barriers of war.
We knew, or so thought, that
this would bring certain death,
but none saw the evil
lurking in the walls.
Fear spread like disease,
but Pericles ignored our
trembling.
My baby, sweet baby, still
trembling
with innocence.
The lingering days only
worsened his disease
as if the battles outside
bore in his blood, war.
His scorching, bare body
desperately acted as his barrier,
but ultimately invited the
eminent pain of death.
For years we had been
desensitized to raging death,
but a new despair triggered
our trembling.
For in those pseudo,
protective walls
prowled a sadist of
innocence.
One by one it found joy in
inflicting bodies with war,
falsifying itself as a
humble disease.
Woe was my soul as I watched
my baby’s disease
slowly curse his faultless
body and welcome death.
What is just that the
Council’s war
inflicts us with its avid
trembling?
We were honorable and my
baby was innocent!
Fraudulent was the
protection of those demonic walls.
Soon thousands upon
thousands lay mangled at the feet of the walls.
This paradox of a disease
found pleasure in scarring
our precious innocence.
My pure baby had seen the
shadows of death
tormenting his dreams. His
soul trembled.
His soul quietly accepted
the declaration of war.
I tell you, no walls can stop
the Peloponnesian disease
that disturbs souls with war
and trembling.
We must fight, as my baby
did, to overcome the death of innocence.
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