From a young age I've always had an interest in collecting things, particularly living things. Around the age of 6, I remember going outside into the small garden that I often saw through the huge window of the bright red door of my old house, and sat in the dirt and the mud, waiting for movement. Sitting with my feet in the dirt I remember it was only when I was able to become completely still that I could see all the movement around me. A small beetle trekking his way across the yard, like an old settler forging his way across the great unknown, was stopped by an unfathomably large pale mountain that seemed to fall from the sky. This mountain was me, and with my small chubby fingers I picked up the little beetle as carefully as I could.
I don't think I understood it at the time but somehow I knew that I needed to be gentle with this little life I had just stumbled upon. So, I just watched. I watched as it panicked, crawling across my hand and up my arm until it realized I was not a threat. I looked a while longer, still curious, and I'd like to think it looked at me in a curious way as well, before I placed him back in the grass to continue on his way.
I sat, still, and watched him wander into the dense green forest of grass until he disappeared from sight. I never saw that beetle again. But if I had, it would not have been such a special experience. If I were to have caught that beetle and stuck him in a jar, I would have seen him again, yes, but he would have never found out what was on the other side of my yard, he would not be happy. Now, you may be saying, “but it's just a beetle! How could It be happy or sad? There is no way it cares so much to see what is on the other end of your yard!”
And I would say, “yeah, it is just a beetle, but the beetle represents the people we meet, who may not be as infatuated with us as we are with them. We can be easily drawn in by their bright colors or shiny shells that we forget their right to wander, and perhaps we will hold them longer than we should.” They may not be particularly scared of us, but they are not so inclined to know us the way we want to know them, so they just wander across our arms and hands, looking for a way back to the ground.
You must let the beetle go so that you can sit still once more, watch the grass for more movement, and let the wandering beetle wander onward until he finds where he is headed. And perhaps you will find yourself a beetle who doesn’t wish to leave, one who chooses to sit still with you. But he’ll only appear if you let the rest wander onward.
In the dark
I wait
Waiting for what
People fear
In the dark,
The creatures of evil,
The people of evil,
Wait
In the darkness,
Evil rests
Coward cower
In fear of the light
But those in the light
Still fear the darkness
In a never ending
War
But those in the light,
Act as though
They don’t
Fear the darkness
But those who rest
In the light
Shall receive
Gifts for their
Giving of light
But still,
There are people
Who take and take
And don’t give
And those,
Who do this
Are being pulled
From the light into
The darkness
And those,
Are the ones
Who thrive
In the pain in others
As darkness hides in the light
As light shines over the darkness
As good lives
While darkness prevails
As we all lift
Our hands
To the darkness
In fear
In pain
As we all lift
Our hands
To the light
in joy
And in peace
Darkness is accepting
Light requires a sacrifice
And because of that
People turn
Towards the darkness
I believe in always looking at the stars, no matter how much homework I have or how much time it takes away from sleeping.
We always parked the truck outside after volleyball practice, even though there was plenty of room in the garage. I liked to think that she (her name was ol’ Bessy— she’d earned the title) enjoyed the chill. She preferred to rest outside. My dad and I would pull my two backpacks out of the backseat, our breaths fogging the air like a dragon’s, poised to ascend the stairs to the house. But we would always linger in the frigid, distinctly uncomfortable air. We bent our necks to the sky like twin pilgrims carrying a heavy load and fixed our eyes on the faint, friendly twinkle of starlight.
Some nights, there were no stars. The dome of the sky was veiled by a film of dark gray clouds, leisurely drifting at the whim of the breeze. Even so, the two of us could still be found in the driveway, getting cricks in our necks with our persistence. Sometimes, the sky’s shroud wore thin enough that we could just barely glimpse a patch of starlight through the foam of gray. We waited eagerly for those moments on nights when starlight was scarce.
On clearer nights, we didn’t always wait until the truck was stopped. We would roll down the windows and stick our heads out like some sort of deranged chicken in an effort to catch sight of the stars. It hurt our necks worse than anything, and I thought I was too young for neck pain (I thought wrong), but it was worth it. Because, if nothing else, I am a pilgrim in search of starlight.
Always looking at the stars is more about posture than anything. Keeping your neck craned, your eyes straining upward, is essential to seeing the stars. It is a position of wonder, even if you don’t completely feel it. Always looking at the stars is a reminder to keep a posture of constant wonder toward the universe, even if it is so late your body feels near collapse, and your eyes can hardly stay peeled open, and it pains your neck to keep staring upward. What is important is that you keep that position, that posture of wonder, that you are constantly ready to behold.
Don’t just look for the stars on darkened country roads, where they are nearly always visible. Look for them on the bustling city streets; look past the tumult of street lights and light pollution. They live everywhere beyond the surface-level clamor and distraction. But you’ll only see them if you look for them. So look! Look until you get a crick in your neck, until your eyes turn red and bloodshot; look until it makes you sick. Keep a posture of wonder toward the universe, and someday, you will find what you were looking for.
On a hot summer's day many men face off against each other,
no reason is there to do so,
save the orders of a man they’ve never met.
Sent off to die,
O’ sent off to die,
for the country that sent them is led by the ignorant.
The value of a man's life is worth nothing to- -someone who doesn’t know him,
yet for the pride the man has in his country,
he is willing to risk his life for someone who- -deems him worthless.
Men in fancy chairs look at numbers,
and get violent towards each other over- -policies that could be resolved peacefully;
not like it matters though, war is still- -peaceful for the man in the fancy chair.
While the politicians see no affect on their- -life,
one man's family is weeping,
while another one’s dream is cold and dead- -on the battlefield.
Yet, when all these men come home,
the sacrifices they made are belittled,
they do not find comfort in the country they- -fought for.
Some of them even get criticized,
while the culprits swallow A5 wagyu beef,
the sacrificial lamb is thrown away.
We must not forget the ones who died,
the sacrificial lambs who faced hardship,
and pay our respects to the vanitized.
was not the night of the Lord's birth
but the night that you passed
when they rolled you out
wearing your favorite sweater
and hair fixed neatly
freshly brushed
and layed on your shoulders
We could tell you were declining
your words slurred together
you were unable to sit up
and you had a weakness in you spirit
that had never been there before
You knew it too
as you assured my mother
that her wedding would be perfect
without you
But it didn’t settle in my soul
till it was Christmas day
when we sang
Silent Night together
but your voice was gone
The madman in the Square;
He has laughed all his bright days.
Never even seen a sordid affair,
His name is Nonwit, the living blaze
Nonwit, the ear to ear grinning fool
Breaks fast by cloud wine and lamb at dawn.
And Sunday crowds hear his mewls;
Man fancies a throne, screaming till mouth wan.
But Nonwit has only his name and face,
And the battles he wages, no one hears.
Winning is this man, all alone in his race;
Happy is this man, weak with no fears.
When Nonwit looks up to greet the days,
Darkness shines down on his worn teeth
He feels this fault, but rage leaves mind razed.
He chatters on, a dull knife without sheath.
Smattered noon walks by his station
Enveloping the constant, tortuous writhing,
That is a colorful, mirthful, static nation.
He never tires of his never ending smiling.
Yes, Nonwit the enigma, who wallows
In eternal felicity, and is everywhere seen,
because there’s nothing else, he’s hollow.
He feasts on air; his meat is far too lean.
So we have our Square Jester at seams,
Implying contrast: enter frowning Omwit.
Gazing up at the light, his tears gleam;
His jaw is set, and his eyes are deeply lit.
I’ve never been witness to his ambling,
Though I suppose he wanders far off;
His heart too weighed down for rambling;
Grief saves him from dying an auf.
From Omwit there is no raucous woop,
His facets I think kind, yet only parts.
No Squaregoer has the complete loop,
And I could not fully tell you his life arts.
Though, Omwit provokes the observer;
Such as his wracking sobs for your mother, stiff,
Whom he never met; he never even heard her.
Perhaps the bereaved offer some wisdom missed.
Omwit has never known cackling insanity,
His face does not contort in that grimace.
Not for lack, rather he keeps good humanity.
Wise is he, who is beholden to lachrymose.
The kingly beggar who mourns the dusk,
Who suffers for every new thing he takes under.
Whipped for knowledge, prevents any lusk;
Omwit whose face shines even as he slumbers.
I have, on the byway, seen two men walk a line
One, faceless, survives. One, illumined, lives in lament.
I find my careless self enjoying Nonwit’s red wine,
But my heart becomes flesh in Omwit’s good torment.
I feel as though
I’ve been here before
These leaves are familiar,
This mud has footprints
I wind through the
Hiking trails of a muddled
Collective consciousness
Stumbling over stones
Snagging on twigs
As we double-back
Check our compasses
Then proceed
Through a foggy grove
Lost leading the blind
Elk watch with quiet
Awe, or perhaps bewilderment
I swear I’ve heard that
Bird before
And kicked that stump
Enough to dent our boots
There goes that fox
With a bullet-hole
In its tail, from where
We came so close to comprehension
We snag on twigs
Kick the stumps
Check our compasses
Yet end up back in that foggy grove.
For some reason I feel stuck in this sense of longing. I wish to express it in art and words yet it is stuck in my mind; unable to escape its fleshly confines. I’d prefer to tear it out of my head, painfully shoving it onto a screen or paper, rather than let it settle. I want to put it on physicality and allow others to define it for me. Make them help find sense in the words better than I can myself, but I know that won’t work. I’m too caught up in the feeling and the thoughts to articulate it well enough. No one else will be able to fully understand my nonsensical blabbering. I’ve spoken on this too many times before. All the poems, all the words, all the stupid ramblings which only the walls truly hear. I don’t know enough words, but finding vocabulary is too boring to devote my time. This longing for a medium which is simple and articulate is painful. I want simplicity and directness, and yet that open brush of freedom calls me all the same. My God does it piss me off. I want to write, but my hands won’t move and my mind won’t think. I want to speak, yet my teeth grind against each other and words lump in my throat. I want to find the answer, but my soul likes to be lost and it creates no map to aid my aching mind. Conflictions and comparisons make up my being, and for that I despise my being. But I don’t in reality it’s simply this angering yearning which penetrates my soul and forces it into two halves, one which hates all it touches and another which loves too much that it must sit and suffer in an ache filled yearning.
Or are they over?
It’s a fickle thing
Oh, what a joke
It was just yesterday
That today
Was a tomorrow away
A week from now
Are we the same
Only seven days lighter
Or seven days heavier?
It’s a fickle thing
What a headache
Eternity
Brushes my fingers
Strangling the rhythm
Of my heart
Folding my flesh
Existing again
Vanishing
Into the mouth
Of the river.
My closet:
A forest of trees.
It glows,
With iridescent greens.
My room:
Long grown weeds
Scattered
With dandelion seeds
That’s how I like it:
Dirty and forgotten.
The unintended
Untended
Gardens
That I sit
And till
Within me.
It ain’t so easy,
Y’know,
Bein’ green.
This contentedness
For life
Is more of a laziness
I wanna
Sit by
In small boats
And watch everything pass:
A long car ride,
But I don’t know where I’m going.
I wonder if,
I’ll just lay here
And dig myself a grave
So I can learn something from dirt
And sit
And rot
Let other life
Feast upon me
A buffet:
It’s all I wanna be.
It ain’t so easy
Bein’ green,
Though I wish on every star
That it was.
I wished to cover my eyes
And let my appetite
Drag me
To wander.
Fools call it wisdom
But I know
It’s only
A lack of ambition.
It ain’t easy
Bein’ green
Oh,
It ain’t easy
To wish for a will,
constantly crossing fingers,
knock on wood
Maybe this time
it will appear.
So I don’t have to till
Rock solid
Earth
To find it.
Floating off into the distance
No paddles for guidance
Barley even staying above the water
Fog so thick you can’t see the bends in the river
Or the rapids just up ahead
You never know what lays before you
Till you chase the fog away
Till you forge a paddle from drifting wood
Till you make your raft sturdy
The river doesn't end
You just have to make the ride more enjoyable
I think we’re all like cereal
Sugar Coated things
Who pretend to be like characters
With hats, or hooves, or wings
When we get poured into hard times
We lose our appeal fast
And stick onto the sides of the bowl
To try to make life last
We become drenched in our own dismay
Tired because we’ve been stirred
Angry, we didn’t get our way
Our concept is absurd
Throw your child in the fire!
The fears of the future the kiln will burn down and destroy.
The fragility it will harden.
The glaze it will clear.
Things will make sense.
Or maybe they won’t, maybe they’ll melt and fold and darken and harden like that and you’ll sigh and put it on your shelf.
Your name carved into it,
Your graven image.
But dust to dust, eh?
For the thousands of years of pottery back to red clay staining my hands.
Back to reclaim and be reclaimed.
Back with a vengeance- I smack and stab and carve and scrape and score and hollow it all out so it won’t explode.
My dust creation, I build a man with dirt but breathe him no life in his lungs.
I take a rib and carve out a new being, slice off a side and give it my vision.
I give it my vision.
But I give my vision to the kiln.
