One word is enough
To end this agony.
Like the parched earth
Thirsts for water,
My ears yearn for it.
To break the heat,
To unleash the storms,
To release the anguish from gaping rifts.
Like mist rising to kiss the stars goodbye.
To sweep away the cold,
To set the frozen lakes and woods
Dancing, alit in the merry breeze
With starlight, dust motes, pollen, seeds.
That’s all it’d take.
But like the last snowflake of the season,
Refusing to thaw,
It stays at the very edge of your frozen lips.
You see your future coming.
A train rolling into the station
Minutes before it does.
Do you board it?
Do you leave it?
Do you let it pass?
What would be if you were to board not this but another one?
Or do you seize the moment,
Set aside your fears,
And get moving,
Trusting the universe
To beat in rhythm with your soul?
You wake up and you’re running,
Every day is the same.
You time yourself for ‘morrow,
But the best days are insane.
If you look beyond yourself now,
You’ll see the sky, the stars.
The birds are in the ocean,
Their wings unfurled on your back.
Lines across the universe
Those famous lines
That our hands define.
They make me yours
They make you mine.
And when these lines
Grow faint and stop,
And we find ourselves
Lost and without love,
Wondering what made us click
In the first place,
And we go like crazy
In search of ‘selves,
Our pieces scattered across space,
Blaming each other
For this messy state:
Our stupid hearts,
How could they have fooled us again?
It’s then we’ll catch a glimpse of “us”
Across the lines through the universe.
Across the trains, across the plains.
We’ll realize it wasn’t us, it was our pain.
Through time and space
The monsters we’ve made of each other
Will burn off in their afterglow.
The doubts we had, what tore us apart,
Won’t matter, struck out by the lines of our hearts.
For you and I, love,
We were made to last.
The world’s falling apart. My world, the world around me; going up in ravenous flames like the Californian woods, with the roar of Greenland’s glaciers crashing into widening oceans, with the rage of tornadoes ripping through the Midwest like angry gods settling their differences with crazy arm sweeps.
Towns are dying. Worlds unknown, cultures unheard of are fast turning into dust. Like Atlantis and Avalon and others before them — great giants brought to their knees by temperamental gods.
The earth’s cracking up, like my heart, releasing the spirits long trapped in its bosom. The rivers are no longer flowing, but are mere stagnant, withering pools.
The bogs are burning, the woods are burning, the air, the seas, our homes are burning. It’s only a matter of time when we will all go up flames. And the wars we rage within and with each other, over land, oil, food, water, over love even, would cease to matter. Or matter more, more intensely than before … For what else would be there but now?
The seasons have already lost their color. One long, dry spell of white, hot blaze. Blades brown and crisp like crackling crunch under trees naked with shame. Time, it seems, has given up on healing us as well.
Our atmosphere is a paradox. Thinning and bloating up at the same time, with foreign molecules worse that CFC fattening up on heat and the sun shredding away the ozone layer.
The preacher says there’s nothing like global warming. That climate change is God’s realm. Like life, like death. The scientists and leading thinkers disagree: how can you be so blind when it’s staring right in your face?
And I wonder if God has a kill switch, a restart button to reboot the whole damn world, my heart, and let them start all over again.
We were there.
We were there that summer.
Slayer and slain.
And none of us came back alive.
We were there, that summer,
In the thick of the jungle.
Fighting our shadows. Our demons.
The enemy no longer in sight.
We were there.
Alone each one of us.
Victor and victim.
And none of us had wanted to die.
A leaf caught in the wind,
I find myself home
With a slight perception shift.
All the world’s my backyard,
Life’s not just entry and exit.
The best parts become accessible
When I risk being blown adrift.
The radio being tuned
The brushing of a drum
The clinking of glasses
The swooshing of hot, greasy air
Congealing all senses
Sticky, gently swaying bodies
Into the solid color of harsh daylight
As the day trundles on
Like soft butter spread thickly on toasted earth
Waiting for the evening rain
To bring some cool respite.
The noise of a thousand sparrows
Shatters through my forgetful calm.
I sift through the sands of time,
For the remains of who I am.