Disclaimer

So if you're bored at this poetry, I gotta say, sorry. It's ok, though...you can be. I just don't really know what else to write you. The other day, I tried to sit down in front of my fireplace and tell you incredible insights into what I was learning; incredible revelations I was having, but then I forgot them.

And I tried to tell you about how, this one day, we all went out on a stroll and some of us started arguing over what to call a certain tree, and then over what to do with a certain boulder, and then over what to call the aroma of the dirt we were smelling...and then we all died. It was one day, really, only one! I saw a picture of you in the sand along the path we were walking on. It looked like one of those old timey pictures of our great great grandparents with their staight faces (it was superficial to smile in pictures you know) and their pitch forks and stuff. But you looked so sad, even more sad than our great great grandparents, and it was a picture of only your head, and I thought, "I should paint this." And so I did! It's wonderful, hanging over my fireplace now. I know, we've talked about when you come to life sometimes and sit with me next to the fireplace and we talk all night about the stars, the universe and the speed of light. But you don't want to hear about that, you want to hear about why you cry.

I'm telling, I've been working on it: painting and repainting you, but tears always come and they wash away half your face. But aside from all the painting, I think I've got it: you hate being a painting or a photograph, or anything that keeps you from talking about the speed of light. I just don't know how to keep you here. It's quiet here, the silence is actually beautiful, but I've realized that anytime that silence breathes over us next to the fireplace, you want to leave. I've told you, remember, that these walls are made of the beauty of everything, but they are nothing as much as they are beauty and so you may leave when ever you so please.

Please forgive me...I don't know how to say it...basically, I'm begging you to come back. Here there is speed of light for all of us and we can remember when we died and all of the argueing was over.

This Man I Saw

so...who's the pauper and who's the prince?
I know, it's Christmas -
hence
the kingdom's in our midst, I said.

I said it all.
I walked, falling off
his scizophrenic preaching,
"I know what's it's like," he said.

"My brother and his masters," he didn't tremble
at anyone's thought, thimble, or thumb biting potential

"He's got a masters in it,"
but who's master said it?

I said it...
all.

Fall from his inconvience (I'm telling you),
he was a grievious
embarassing babbler,
over his glasses, talking to no one
out the door, looking rather...fine.

and you will say, "I hated him,"
and I will say, "I hated myself"
at this perpendicular angle of my seat
against this
concretefloor of a painter's
door

I cocked your mouth and shot it right at him
if he wouldn't have ducked over his glasses

this place has never seen
the vertigo of my mind,
I gleened, stood horizontally in the presence
of a ghost of his kind.

The painting washed away
with halls of decking,
and the door closed,
he and his glasses left (they were the big kind, the ones from the 80's)

I wanted him to be a prince,
his bags and his voice void of the price of the praises men
said,

"He is a king."