sometimes all you need is a good nights sleep. and you wake up giggling in bed and the morning is grey and cool but the sun lines the leaves outside your window and everything that felt so dark and twisty last night has cleared away and you are smiling, youve soaked in it long enough and can get out and dry off on your own.
this morning its these poems that make sense, that make everything better and the same.

A Rational Sky

How Life Longs
to deposit
self-centricity
Be cautious!
Do you want to give in,
do you want to give up?
I dont!
How nights linger-
the tragic delusion
that loneliness
is martyrdom
be cautious!
are you better
for not getting better?
are the days better
when you are numb?
is a rationalized sky
anymore blue?


He Dreamt She Was An Atom
She Dreamt He Was Enola Gay

the lorenz attractor
the space between
my fingers and your skin
infinitely divisible,
infinitely separate
never connecting
never touching

Fingernails in my back
10, 000 miles away,
penetration goes nowhere;
The mouth on your mouth
is as distant as Baghdad
the whispers in your ear
radio broadcasts from
Czechoslovakia

Maybe I never saw you
as closely as i should;
nor did your hands
ever hold mine; and so
this parting should be
no more than reality
amplified by tens
and tens and tens
until it becomes only
slightly more heavy
than i can bear,
until i see so much
of this sad sphere
that hope approaches
asymptote


and finally.......





Finally Written

Dont be afraid of writing a pure sentence;
even if at night you feel you cant sleep;
and the weight of the words on your chest
gives way to heavy sighs:

Youre lucky,
if she can calm you;
youre lucky
if you can write it down
youre luckiest
if you can tell her.

And when I learned to drive I said;
"this is the death of my youth,"
and when i first made love I said;
"this is the death of my youth,"
and when i first fell in love i said;
:here is my youth again!"
and when she left (because she will always leave) I said;
"here is the death of my youth"
and my youth has died
1000 deaths at the hands
of corruption and decay
disintegration of the imaginary worlds
i flew in as a child; replaced
by the sea of experiences
and the sense of irony
that tells me never to write
"a sea of experiences"
But when i make excuses:
"here at school, how can i be pure"
"here at work, how can i be pure"
I'm turning my back on the noblest search:
to burn these books and shatter this steel
into the purest form it can handle
without breaking my body in half
everything else is compromise
everything else is the death of our youth.



thats enough for today. i need coffee, and a walk, and time. to fucking. clear. my head.