To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.

The room

In the tiny room that is her life she kept forgetting how young she is.
Keep forgetting, about the time line that continues and don't stop.

And in her room that is her life, there are boxes of memories that takes up too much space and forces her attention to those moments.

They are piling higher up the wall and outward into the center
of the room, her room that is her life.

It sometimes feels claustrophobic and stuffy inside.
With no doors only windows that lets light in but only half the time.
She can see the wind in the way the trees move but not feel the breeze.

Dismisses from her mind that she has ever felt it before, but at the same time has, but then not quite. Kind of easy to do she realized, this failure to recall things

Staring into the Sun

Her stare was hard.
Like a rock type hard
that was thrown from her hand
and caught
by my face.

I can taste blood

from where I accidentally bit
the insides of my cheek
to keep from crying.

And fuck did it hurt
the stare I mean.
Not the rock metaphor
used to describe the stare.

That was all figurative

But then if the stare was like a rock
then the 5 words that followed was
the pull of the trigger

to the gun
that released the metal bullet
which pierced my heart
and literally killed me.
---













Sun.

I sat on the top of the Sequoia tree
blinding myself by watching the sun in the sky.
Watched him be foolishly swallow by the horizon
Knowing he will be just be puke out by tomorrow.
I guess he likes the ride.

Moon.

When it nightfalls I turned my eyes to look at the moody moon
playing hide and seek behind dark travelers called Clouds.
When I stretched my fingertips towards her,
She turns savage and I get frostbite.

Poets are liars.
They lie so completely
That they make up pain
Even when they're hurting.

Readers of poetry
Can know this pain,
Not the real ones of course,
But the imagined ones.

And on the train rails
Huffing, fooling the head
This little toy engine
We call the heart.


—James Parr

"Autopsychography"

The poet is a feigner.
He feigns so completely
That he even feigns that he is suffering
The pains that he is really experiencing.

And those who read what he writers
As they read, sharply feel
Not his double pain, but their single one

And so, upon its toy tracks,
Runs around, diverting reason
The wound-up mechanical train
That goes by the name of heart.

—Ernesto Guerra Da Cal

"The poet fancying each belief"

The poet fancying each belief
So wholly through and through
Ends by imagining the grief
He really feels is true.
And those who read what he has spelt
In the read grief feel good--
Not in the two griefs he has felt,
But one they never could.

Thus to beguile and entertain
The reason, does he start,
Upon its rails, the clockwork train
That's also called the heart.

—Roy Campbell

Thirteen ways of looking at a Poem

"Autopsychography"

The poet is a fake.
His faking seems so real
That he will fake the ache
Which he can really feel.


And those who read his cries
Feel in the paper tears
Not two aches that are his
But one that is not theirs.


And so in its ring
Giving the mind a game
Goes this train on a string
And the heart is its name.


—Keith Bosley

a spider and a fly

i heard a spider
and a fly arguing
wait said the fly
do not eat me
i serve a great purpose
in the world

you will have to
show me said the spider

i scurry around
gutters and sewers
and garbage cans
said the fly and gather
up the germs of
typhoid influenza
and pneumonia on my feet
and wings
then i carry these germs
into the households of men
and give them diseases
all the people who
have lived the right
sort of life recover
from the diseases
and the old soaks who
have weakened their systems
with liquor and iniquity
succumb it is my mission
to help rid the world
of these wicked persons
i am a vessel of righteousness
scattering seeds of justice
and serving the noblest uses

it is true said the spider
that you are more
useful in a plodding
material sort of way
than i am but i do not
serve the utilitarian deities
i serve the gods of beauty
look at the gossamer webs
i weave they float in the sun
like filaments of song
if you get what i mean
i do not work at anything
i play all the time
i am busy with the stuff
of enchantment and the materials
of fairyland my works
transcend utility
i am the artist
a creator and a demi god
it is ridiculous to suppose
that i should be denied
the food i need in order
to continue to create
beauty i tell you
plainly mister fly it is all
damned nonsense for that food
to rear up on its hind legs
and say it should not be eaten

you have convinced me
said the fly say no more
and shutting all his eyes
he prepared himself for dinner
and yet he said i could
have made out a case
for myself too if i had
had a better line of talk

of course you could said the spider
clutching a sirloin from him
but the end would have been
just the same if neither of
us had spoken at all

boss i am afraid that what
the spider said is true
and it gives me to think
furiously upon the futility
of literature

Don Marquis

sweet tooth

The air was so sweet tonight that it left a bitter after sight. To them I wear blood coated glasses to hide the war from my eyes. But really the years of hate, prejudice, and cruelty has already rotted them away.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Im hiding in the walls of Sistine chapel,
Watching as the hand of God gives life to
Adam and the image of God being painted in a single day.
Oh! Michelangelo, Michelangelo, Michelangelo

sometimes
you make me so happy
inside


i think i would puke rainbows
if i opened my mouth
so instead i just sit and smile

...and the reality of today became better than the dream. Im not going to delude myself of the meaning behind it.

All day

In and out, your fingers weaves their the way throughout my day. With morning's breakfast I have thoughts of you inside my mind that caresses and stroke my aligning walls. At noon thrice times already you have covered my body. And by desert, a licked clean plate lay deep inside my dreams of tomorrow.

Merry-go-Round

My mind is feeling so empty, just like a lone bench surrounded by filled seats. Mary how could you go, and dance around me so.

And when the ride is done, I am afraid of how strong my heart will still be holding on. Tightly palm to palm with you, watching as everyone get off.

Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me but I could have sworn the consuming lips against mine was just a momentary chill. But I realized it was just another start at another round.

If no one understand the dizziness, then it would be just you and me who will sit and just ride.

Laying in the bed I made.

Before
I trapped myself by being stuck in a deja vu, and it was with the words I never intended on saying escaping, did I finally become free.

I think I was living too much in the moment but as each second spent with you becoming a new expression and experience of happieness, I found myself not caring. Does that make me selfish?

Yeah, I think so. The important thing is that I am aware of it, doesnt mean I am going to feel bad. My friends think this is the tragic tale with a disasterous ending.

I guess its good that I dont feel bad about not listening to them then, neither.

But acknowledgment has always been the easiest. Its actually getting out of the bed I made thats the hardest.

I saw your hand waving goodbye

and before I had the chance to stop inevitable
chain reaction
Of, you no longer being around
Of, a crack, forming within me again becoming longer with time
Of, missing your voice so much that I cant stand to be around any other sound
Of, before I could grab on to your swaying fingers and entangle them with mine;

Your were already gone.

Kiss

I’m kissing you
Be it because
of the boldness
in my body or
the stubbornness
of my soul.

As our lips
touch I pray you
be proud and
never bitter cold.

For I can
never be prideful
of what I use
to be and but if
this is done right
I will never
be ungrateful for
your heat.

Cliffhangers

A fist may hurt more than words, but regret…
will push you off a cliff. It will not leave a simple scraped knee to be healed by a mother’s kiss. There is no needle to stitch wounds made by landing in a thorny bush.

When you fall…
the clouds will slice your cheek. Moisture will be like stinging spit licking against your burning skin. Bring forth spoil tears that will leave with your stomach sick.

Your mind...
becomes unstable, as the plummeting drop brings you closer to the ground. You have only a second to how you will you should have taken the fist.

Wake

Sing to me,
to me,
to me.
For I am lost. Meticulously
in the details
of this world.

It weighs down
on me with blinding words,
deafening actions,
and tasteless sounds.

I will never
apologize for my
soul that strives
just to be,
to be
to be

But I can’t escape
her, my alluring muse. For
I am just a simple single moiety
standing outside the gates of resting
trying to reach through.
Trying to grab a dream.

So instead
of more wondering,
I ask just to
please sing me
back to sleep,
to sleep,
to sleep.

2:54 am

Its comforting
to look up into
the face of the
night sky.

Peering with
nocturnal eyes
at and with

each untouchable star
I open myself little more
And pray
during each sight

to see the dippers
elegant tilt.
Anticipating the pour,
steadly poised

to wash away
the lingering mud
of troubled days
and lonely nights