Stars Unstuck

The clouds stood still

in the silence,

holding their breath

as they billowed.

The stars

the whir of twinkling,

the constellations dancing

in their freedom. 

The movement of the earth

misaligned,

spinning crooked and swinging

into the celestial spring.

The newfound breezes

pushing the stars

like sailing,

across the vast open sea.

There are no endings,

in the finite time,

the stars blur themselves

in drunken slurs,

a jangling silence

as we stand still

in time.

A Poetic Update

If you read this blog
I assume you follow
(maybe even enjoy!)
my poetry.


And as I am feeling 
pretty good about it 
right now, I'll share
some news on this front.


I am preparing to be
published in four different
anthologies/quarterlies
in the coming months.


Scholastic, World Poetry Movement,
The Live Poet's Society of New Jersey,
and Teen Ink
will all have one of my poems 
published. 


That's all. 
Have a lovely day.

Murmurings

And your hands,
the pale ivory fingers
in slender movements.


Just as whispers across
the morning curtains.
Your sleeping movements
slight twitch and murmur
in dreams.
They carry you farther
than my arms ever could. 

Feathery Constellations

We wanted aviation.

Desired the swift winds

under our feet,

the leap of flight

-into the unknown,

the wild blues.

We could have always been

birds, our souls beating loudly.

Propellers off this planet.

Our souls could have always been

balsa wood aeroplanes.

Our hands to poorly construct 

our own escapes over the edges

of the cliffs.

Our hearts fluttering madly,

wings beating and drowning 

out the swift calling of the skies.

We could have reached our arms 

up in anticipation, beautiful

glorious- tasted the ozone

and given ourselves

over to the cosmos.

We have always desired

for celestial bodies.

I want to fly up,

splatter as a dazzling constellation

on the ceiling of the world,

glittering my bird soul-feathers

across the azure.

We desire aviation always-

connectivity to the 

cold and unearthly which harbors 

our depths

of self and soul.

The skies which stir up

sanctuary. 

No Wake Zone

All the sound shoved out to sea

out to sea,

a foreign silence.

The gaping mouth

of the world,

spilling forth all wisdom.

In slow streams of quiet,

its subtlety unnerving,

our eyes squinting on the 

horizon line-

does sea depart from sky,

with a kiss are they two?

Or is such a wisdom 

forever locked in 

a single body?

No edge

or end,

a traversing

across in 

diagonals, our straightaways

tidal no-wake zones.

Our fluttering bodies

glimmering sea,

there is nothing but

one blue haze,

it holds all the world-

oh soul-dripping wisdom

cyclic as all earth.

The sea no end,

sky one dome

a never ceasing wisdom.

Decay to April

Oh beauty

unbounded, letting

her hair down 

to flow as weeping willows,

the whipoorwills call

in the night

to the green leaves

on the breeze.

The river bank breeze's

penchant for misting

the grasses, soothing 

the ducks

on its glassy surface

in the dawn.

Some collected melancholy

in a painted scene 

of spring mornings

spent with nature, 

herself spilling across

the landscape,

a draft of vernal days

on her breath.

Silent still

of April in the reeds.

Tulips catapulting themselves

to be lustily kissed

by the sun.

As the tree leaves

grow greener

the days longer,

there is a lean languish

to the zephyr,

he sits in bridcall

on the hills

singing in mockery

of winter's death,

the decaying of

seasons.

The insomniac beauty 

of the vernal equinox.

Maps, Charts

I will count 

the indents of your

spine,

map the hollows

of your back,

place them.

Keep them there,

in an order,

to save you.

In whatever way I may,

chart you, 

a preservation of 

how you are.

There, a body.

No way to chart spirit.

But a topography

of some mysticism

lies within the form.

An essence

I shall try to 

gather,

to make sense of

with measured steps.

Static Soft

I would

wade through 

every postmodern

sunset 

to find you

on the overpass.

The quick silence

of chemical wind 

on your lips,

wisps of atmosphere

snaking through your hair,

facing a blaze

unrivaled,

even in your gawky

bones, 

they rattle as we run

through the falling sky.

A somber

reflection cast in 

metallic puddles

splishing 

through them in rubber galoshes

which echo radio waves

to our feet.

Absorbed

in static sunrise

the grey dawns

on misted lawns

we are forever jumping fences

running the elliptical patterns

of logic as

it seems,

our broken hearts

pumping broken blood.

Our lungs cloaked 

in television waves,

rippling off the 

shiny cars

glinting in some realist's dreams.

I breathe static into

you, a life aura

of soft sounds 

as your limping body

stands smug

against a biohazard blur

dying out in the western sky.

[Based on events from the novel White Noise]

Brine Chill

Darling

Pacific.

You lie in my veins

unrelentingly

bold,

the chill of your tides

washing

over anew.

Everyday

these waves 

crash over my head,

christened again

in the salty brine.

Darling 

Pacific.

Sea Salt

The whispers

of phantom skin on 

my sheets, flutters

on lips faded

in the dusty morning

sun. It falls in slants

to match your posture 

as it was.

There, the valley of

your once-stationary body

lie, I want to fill it as a lake,

watch the skies pass

through your form.

To capture you in 

some natural element 

to suit you, 

blue eyed.

I will be your mountain range

ancient anchor to your love.

Sunrise over body,

and indent, the twinned

half of Greek lore,

where the second soul 

lie sleeping still.

I shall gather you

to me, calm waves

you have left

in the tides.

Walk in the sands

of some shore

of your indented body.

Somewhere there

is lingering of your 

voice, faint notes

of the sea,

from the salt of

your skin.

Teenage Dream

The modernity of youth,

the strange unyielding

to tidal time, 

a rhythmic pulse

of decay in our

breaking bones.

The cracking 

of our ribs,

hearts bursting

as we are pulled

forward-back,

a tumble-down cyclic

washing machine

we are tossed 'round.

It is proverbial,

scribed on bathroom tiles

in prolific sharpies,

we are the messenger gods

of some generation 

in-between all else.

The condition sub-humanoid

street crawlers

urban nightmares

in our scrawling dreams

on Saturday afternoons,

shades pulled

in a sleazy gesture.

We whisper in 

metal-clanging halls,

stairwells echoing 

the past of ourselves,

retro-clad.

Some class of 

ourselves.

A caste out of the system,

sublime in our recline

over the jungles

of thought.

What is there to do

but everything

we are told

in the wake of our

dreams and screaming

rock bands,

the thumping bass oozing

from underneath garage doors.

Across the skies we

blaze fast and bold

trained in the ways

to do as we're told.

We are the shouting

masses in disrepair

all along the streets

with our radios blaring

we are the chosen ones,

messiahs.

Who burn fast,

die young.

New Order

The night-parties

down the summer blocks

in the sleepy city.

The waves of 

eighties synth drifting

between air conditioner

hums and barking dogs.

In this humid smell

of July, the night

dripping with 

dancing bodies

under the wicked 

disco cosmos.

The recklessness

ascribed our situation.

The necessity of

our midnight plight

of dancing.

Our crazed longing

after what was 

always so far gone,

never to come,

so we shook it out

instead. 

Got loose and low

and shouted 

with the red party cups

in our hands.

This was the future

we were fearing,

denying in 

our starry-eyed

beating hearts-

our whispered

dreams slurred in 

with hazy disasters

of fleeting youth.

As we were driving far

and fast with

no restraint

into a sunrise 

with mysterious colors,

tinted with the misery

of modern youth.

The car pulsing steadily

along the horizon with

New Order in the tape deck.

In a Darkened Theater

So soft soft

the communal rustling

in the dark,

bobbing and weaving.

The hushing coughs

of squeaking souls.

We sit in our

saturating silences

with so much air

it makes me yawn,

in a sleepless way

as we are all here.

Some manifestation

of our own humankind.

The adhesion of

our fleshy fingers

to the blackened 

outlines and shadows

far off, these whispers

of who were can be in the

empty spaces

between.

We, the empty

people

with voids somewhere-

the filling of them in a

coralling manner.

Our bodies situated

in our quaint crooked rows

eyes on the prize

we cannot see

through the veils.

Combined breathing 

leaves such 

an impact on the soul.