The Lark

The lark preens in silence
 grinding her talons like gnashing teeth. 
Seasons float past
a passing rain, slithering
over her gilded feathers
but she moves not a muscle
 save a restless twitching
about the eyelids. 
Glass eyes, opaque
see not the evolution.
Stones into cities, cities into nations
nations into dust they fall
beneath the perch of the lark.
Would her voice shake their slumber?
An eon has she weathered
and withered
and pondered
until every star shoots across the sky
but the sunset glow on the charred dead tree
fades to a flash of fire
that ignites for a solstice milisecond
then vanishes into the oscilations
as the earth whips around in its courses
And still the lark's feathers wane and wax
as the dead tree's blackened spindle
petrifies to crystals
And still the dust rises and falls in clouds
of progress and failures
And still the seasons turn like an hourglass
churning sands into wind currents
gashing her feathers like a clenched fist
of furious retribution
And still the stoney lark
doen't crinkle her throat
into a song.

19-02-11

she drinks his skin
          like taking a pill
     fickle
glisten of the fakediamond
     earrings              she wore so long ago
cast light like prisms          alluring
lulls her into the stucco walls
                       a cloaking of the end
of the rainbow
but ethereal vapors condensing into
      swimming thoughts of
spring
                only a dusty filament
                and crackling leaves
and the day fades to ice
       but now as she contorts
to the breadth of his shoulders
the duplicity of existance
          sinks beneath the sea
but if those fakediamonds
                       could splice time
would it sting as peroxide on a cut
                 or burgeon a universe
        that flits about the dreams
        like a siren lure
only
in ultraviolet will she see desire
                               forgotten
but lingering about her like an aura
       she tries to rekindle
       the northern lights
just to see
and then he mends her retinas
with a band-aid and a
                                 kiss

My Favorite Love Quotes

"You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep, because reality is finally better than your dreams." ~Dr. Seuss

"If you want to be with someone you love, aren't you already there?" ~Anonymous

"We're not too young for love. We're just to young for just about everything that comes with love." ~Anonymous

"Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies."  ~Aristotle

"If your not willing to sound stupid, you're not worthy of falling in love." ~Anonymous

 "She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudness climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes..."
~Lord Byron

"To be your friend was all I ever wanted; to be your lover was all I ever dreamed." ~Anonymous

"There is no remedy for love but to love more." ~Henry David Thoreau

"The heart has its reasons, in which reason knows nothing." ~Pascal

"When you sit with a nice girl for two hours, you think it’s only a minute. But when you sit on a hot stove for a minute, you think its two hours. That’s relativity." ~Albert Einstein

"Love is a gross exaggeration of the difference between one person and everybody else." ~Anonymous

"Doubt that the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move his aides, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love." ~ Shakespeare

A Walk in the Park

Sun, for the first time in days, breaks the horizon in a perpetual sunrise, beckoning me to dive into the frigid air and explore.  Everything looks greener in the light, healthy and gleaming, warm despite the crystal wind that slashes at my bare hands. The castle puffs its chest out to the sky, the British flag erect in a salute to the people below.  Buildings cluster together in haphazard lines along the edge of the cobblestone street as if they are huddling from the cold.  Commuters also line the streets, spilling over the sidewalks and into the road, although there are no cars in sight. The bluetooth headsets seem strangely out of place in the eyes of the Victorian windows.  They remember the days when the cars were replaced by carriages, and instead of street clothes, there were hoop skirts and tailcoats. Instead of a video store, there was once a candle shop, and instead of the H&M, there was once a tailor and a tailor's aprentice.  At the end of the street, I am greeted by a Roman wall, the fingerprint of history standing tall and unweathered against the blue sky.  I run my hand against the moss-covered stones, the days of battles and blood and triumph fading behind centuries of rain. I cut through a secret archway into the courtyard.  Inside the courtyard, brilliant goldfish are swimming in a pond.  Children lean over and drop pieces of bread into the water, so that the fish may swim up and pluck the food from the rippling surface.  Various walking paths stem from the courtyard, and I follow one of them to the edge of a river.  I wind behind the weeping willows, and though they are brown with winter, their branches are rich chocolate color in the sun.  They sweep and swing in the breeze, the tips of their branches skirting the waves and dabbling in the current of the brook.  Ducks glide across the water in flocks, gathering to gossip about the glittering day.  The swans stand aloof on the banks, ruffling their plumage with blinding whiteness. I could sit and watch the swans for hours, but the clocktower chimes call me back home, where tea and scones await me.

The Intersect

.

       This visual representation of an infinitesimal point in space marks the intersection of all events, possible and impossible, real and unreal, dreams and the tangible before us.  It is one-dimensional, simple and crude, but paradoxically embodies all the complexities of nature, and is present throughout every discovered and undiscovered dimension.  This point is a singularity, the point of no return, a blot on the fabric of spacetime where everything spikes to infinity and beyond, intrinsically hiding all that is and that will be beneath the veil of quantum contortions. 
        This point seems ordinary, and one may think it Cartesian, but this point cannot be captured by numbers alone.  It cannot be recorded in a notebook and left to fester between musty pages. It cannot be described in words, nor photographed by a camera, nor examined through a magnifying glass.  It must be dreamed, hoped, and pondered.  Only the most intelligent of the electric shocks can dabble into the complexities of a single point, and once you have seen the interior of infinity, you will never be free.  Once you have gone beyond the event horizon, you will have no choice but to search deep into the fabrics of mystery, hunting, stalking the answers like prey.  But they will undoubtedly escape. 
        You have approached something both larger than the imagination can contain and smaller than the imagination can follow.  It emanates more than all the treasures of time. This point is the place where numbers have color and science is an eloquent story unfolding into a thousand simultaneous plots diverging from a single stem in an unending stream of possibilities.  This point is where the song and the dancer are one, a point of harmony and cohesion the dark infinitude of space.  This intersection is both the answer and the question.  This point is a solace, a hope, a dream.  You can asymptote closer and closer, but never enter its esoteric realm of truth.
         Because in our world, this point does not exist. It does not have length, width, or height. You cannot see it, touch it, smell it, hear it, or taste it.  Therefore, it is not real. The dot at the top of this screen is not the point.  Nor is the spot on the ceiling tile, nor is the doodle on your math homework.  You must create the true point of truth.  You must think it, delve into it like an excavator unearthing a cave.  You must break the solid walls that encircle your mind and then chase the ephemeral butterfly to another world.  If it exists to you, then it exists somewhere in the universe.  Make this point exist.

Comet

Once you were a glimmer on the horizon,
a dream lurking in the outer reaches of space
Mysteries cloaked in hues of cerulean stardust lay
tucked away in a cloudy veil of taciturn stillness
When suddenly, some cosmic wind of fate
swept you form your icy prison and lurched
you into spiral motion, a vortex of gravity
You careened, the harsh vacuum of space
shaking your rocky soul, rocking
your icy center, re-centering
your universe as you entered the realm
of the sun, where photons kiss your subzero surface
and ignite a fire, sublime sublimation
radiating from the flames and glowing
for all of space, for all of time
for all stars, galaxies, and dimensions
You shine, whirl faster and closer
blazing red then gold then blue
as the winds of fusion rip you,
You accelerate, whipping into an ellipse
not knowing that every telescope's eye
is focused in your direction
You light their skies like an omen, a wishing star
with your essence, your being laid out behind you
in a spectrum of truth, reason, beauty
You relinquish control and the pull of celestial forces
spins you back out into the vacuum
where your gaseous envelope is no longer
a sparkling gown, and the sun's attraction
is a gentle tug spanning billions of miles
For the next seventy-six years, you will wander
until the day when a rush of glittering gravitons
will lead you to the eminent sun once more.

Airport Security

I am flooded with the white noise of the atrium.  I stand in a disgruntled line, waiting to step through the magic arch which determines whether we are friend or foe, I watch as Muslim headscarves are untied and jerked aside.  A small girl looks up at her mom clutching her scarf as the security woman yanks her hair. The mother does not meet her eyes. In the next line over, Iraqi parents kiss their son goodbye as he is ushered into the additional security line. He is old enough to be a man, but naive enough to be a boy, eyes darting around as a short black woman in blue jerks him into the screening area.  She wears the uniform of the United States, but the under-eye-circles of an overworked underpaid caffeine addict. Perhaps after she builds enough credit hours, she will become an offical part of the Chicago police force, catching criminals in a high-speed chase or investigating murder charges, bringing justice to the dirtiest alleyways in the city.  Her mind lingers on those dreams as she shoves the Arab man into the body-scanner.  She examines her fingernails as she stands with her back to the door like a guard.  Her face softens.  Lost in the white noise, her mind meanders through memories of her great-grandmother's stories of standing in lines, waiting to be tested, screened, scorned, jeered, and spat on.  Her great-grandmother bore scars on her ebony skin, but she also held the glory of the vote, the power to change the country that rejected her. She stood in that line, tobacco spit on her shoes and bruises on her back, and she felt no pain.  And now the woman in blue feels no pain as she plucks the Arab from the crowd like a weed.  And he feels no pain as he is patted down twice, ostracized from the country he has tried to love, from the flag to which he pledged allegiance. He feels no pain because his prayers surround him - they are his food, his drink, and his shield.  The visions of Mecca urge him forward.  They were strong.  His shield did not shatter, though there are dents.  They feel no pain, and we feel no remorse.  But once we are deprived of dreams, our shields turn to rust. They will shatter, if struck with another blow.  Once our prayers fail us, our walls crumble down.  But the rumble of falling stones, the whine of corroding steel, the screech of broken rust, will be smothered by the hum of the white noise.