Sonnet 27 – Done With Love
This love is quizzical. This love’s bizarre.
And I have had enough. I’m through with you!
I’ll have no more long make-outs in the car,
despite the fact I’ve nothing else to do.
I’m sick of sunshine, let me have the dark!
And I won’t waste it holding to your hand
and letting you lead me around the park
like some poor dog you found. Give me dry land,
and not this ocean, not this salty sea.
I’m queasy; I could vomit up my heart.
And maybe if I did, you’d let me be
because I could not love without that part.
And still, I think you might pursue me yet…
No, I’ve moved on. With nothing to regret!
Sonnet 27 – Done With Love
This love is quizzical. This love’s bizarre.
And I have had enough. I’m through with you!
I’ll have no more long make-outs in the car,
despite the fact I’ve nothing else to do.
I’m sick of sunshine, let me have the dark!
And I won’t waste it holding to your hand
and letting you lead me around the park
like some poor dog you found. Give me dry land,
and not this ocean, not this salty sea.
I’m queasy; I could vomit up my heart.
And maybe if I did, you’d let me be
because I could not love without that part.
And still, I think you might pursue me yet…
No, I’ve moved on. With nothing to regret!
Sonnet 26 – Chasing Love
It seems that love’s a nasty, tricky thing.
The more you chase, the more it runs away.
And when you think it’s cornered, love grows wings
and soars among the clouds as if to play.
With haste, you make a makeshift aeroplane
and burst into the sky. Love spots your craft,
and as you close the distance, as you strain,
it shouts a laugh! and darts away; too fast!
And now, your air machine’s run dry of fuel.
It tumbles down, the pieces snapping off,
and you’re alone to drop, to face the cruel,
hard smack of sunbaked clay, the bottom rock.
…But just before you give away your soul,
love comes to you, at last, and makes you whole.
Fountain of Recycled Youth
I visited the beaches of California
and made a discovery.
The people there are works of art
whose youth never fades.
Curious to know
what could preserve them,
I stepped into the ocean.
It sneezed.
A wave rushed over my bare feet,
swirling fine sand and fragments of seashells
about my ankles.
That wave also carried seconds,
minutes,
tiny portions of time
that flopped on the beach, struggling
like misguided baby turtles
to reach dry land.
After the rush,
the world stopped.
The sand settled.
The water became clear and still.
Then,
just as it had come,
the wave reversed its motion,
raking up the sand and shells
like autumn leaves,
sweeping them back into the crushing mouth
of the churning surf.
With them flowed the time.
The moments tried to grasp the shifting mud,
but the wet beast sucked them in
and grinded them to pieces.
I saw it happen again,
again,
again.
I felt the cycle of the ocean
and made my discovery:
The beaches of California are places
where youth and beauty live forever because
just as the ocean rolls in with age,
it sucks that time back out
and indefinitely regurgitates the same three seconds.
Luna
Luna.
You.
(some say stone)
but truly queen
or the great winking eye
of a devouring demon
possessing the atmosphere
You.
majesty of bright-eyed devils
bejeweled faces
turned all in to worship You
from above
from below
united in praying
You.
mighty weeping eye
(tears of milk soak
black velvet)
your servants cry for You
and cry for judgment
against
daylight and its children(us)
You.
rally Your troops
(Your black legions
of flickering Cyclopes
Your dark priests
loathsome bishops
Your astral apocalyptic
army of candles)
You.
wide and wet
stare at
us(tiny creation)
without our blue barrier
exposed
shaken
alone
parasites
in Your kingdom
Luna.
Your gaze
is the warpath.
