On Power Lines

And he folded his knees and sat
under the long metal poles of power lines,
his sinister black trench coat soaked by the rain,
his dark black thoughts drowned
like his running mascara
by a talentless rumble.
Where is the lightning?
How can we write without the lightning?

So he takes his razor blade and cuts his pale flesh
like so many before him,
scratches pain and depression into words on tapered paper
with an axe and a crane with a wrecking ball

...and laughs his trendy little laugh,
and thinks of how no one ever wrote poetry under power lines
in the raging rain.

Well no one ever writes poetry on power lines either,
so consider this a tribute
to everything we've forgotten.


Keep feeling, keep learning

If the journey had ever been easy
Prometheus would hold back his fire,
and there'd be no Sylvia Plath or Edgar Allan Poe.

She walked crippled with weight on her back,
and in her pale brown eyes
burnt a fire singed with philosophy and pain.

Every morning, stepping into the furnace outside,
with each dry expansion of her lungs
came the weight of her musings
sending little chills against her arching back
which, having receded the billionth time,
made her wonder on feeling nothing for just a little while.

"Oh sweet, slithering sun, inspire me;
make me a phoenix and build my nest!
Let me rest in my ashes,
bear my burning wings,
and born me a new back to carry the load,
and maybe some new shoes."

Then the furnace flickered
and that was all she said.



Everything beautiful dies. Everything pure is corrupted by entropy or wisdom. Poison, it seems is the conscience that screams at the blazing edges of photons in the sky, that knows beauty and suffers for it endlessly.



We are all just little ashes from the embers of a fire,
heaving our lungs to the milky stars,
always on the verge of luminous and darkness,
as we ride back into that cold blue flame...