pollywogs and kites

polywog

all of my friends are already pollywogs,

but i am still a tadpole,

and yet i am expected to leap.

but when i am a frog,

and i look at the milky way,

will it look the same?

they ask me if i eat flies,

but i am still too early,

or maybe i'm much too late.

paper

religious text rests in a box

of sinners who think they've won,

but lo' and behold

the winnings of men

who drink aged wine

in the bourgeoisie.

there's only one thing

that this world wants

and it's not flesh

it's paper and coin.

but there is a girl

who doesn't want paper

or gold or diamonds or dust,

and she spins around

as she frantically seeks

for hearts that still beat and pump blood

beautiful

i can tell you how often i try

to lay down alone and not start to cry

over something so selfish and trivial

as "i am not smart. i'm not beautiful".

and every morning, i look up in fear

at the skeleton hiding inside of my mirror

an excuse for a soul, an uninvited guest

i wish that on these bones, i still had human flesh.

eyes. tears. lips. hands.

the saddest things we may ever know.

kites

the interconnected weaves of thread

that the moon so gracefully revealed

as it shone through his window, and onto his bed

but he was not sleeping, he was dead

as he floated away to the midnight light

he thought about the life he had lived

he wasted all his days eating bread and flying kites

he was content, and blew away into the night.

math

out in this world of fire and ash

we all submit to the men who know math

the sun went dim last night as it split into two

let's pray the men with math will know what to do.

clay

how can you say that this world is fun

when there's nothing here except words

words about violence and money and death

and usery and scales and minds.

there are so many things people want me to have

and some of those things they say i need.

well they say buying things will save me from hell

that material things are better than love

a coffee cup in the morning light

that is made from sundried clay

is just as useful as the one from the store

that cost twenty-five dollars just to hold.

light

in the dark,

in the night,

unsure if your eyes

are opened or closed,

you barely make out,

in the distant smog,

a shimmer of light.

a curious glow...

you get up to walk

towards the starlit reflection

that calls you ever so near.

a misplaced watch?

the midnight due?

the grass became tall

the air became still.

you carefully stepped

past a barbwire fence

to the old wistful light

you're finally here.

you can see it clear now,

right in front of you:

just the glistening eye

of a young stray dog,

and as it runs away,

and the wind picks up again

you are again alone,

in the ink, in the cold.

and you wonder, in the dark

if the shimmer of your eyes

will attract another soul

who's as alone as you.

february 20, 2021