Nectarine

Why must I write these vacant words,
these void lines,
to assure the rest that I too
am a great mind?
Why must it not be enough to dream,
to experience,
to imagine,
passionately?

Let me rot away with the vines of this
recklessly overgrown wit
Keen, undying, adamant
the external quiet
blooms this mind ferociously
with berries that starve you faster
desolate, yet
vegetated richly-- 

I wish not to articulate anymore,
but to feel, feverishly, 

to tiptoe through a sunlit courtyard,
dewgrass weeping, seeping
an overripe nectarine in my left hand,
and a deeply battered almanac,
in the right...
yet,
here I go again:

once more I shall erupt
this intense ideation
and best my last creation
for what is its beneficence?
other than its
pestilence pouring
restlessness into my pens
I couldn’t ignore
this introspective lens,
If it meant my life or my death 

What does it matter?
I know
this desire to
rationalize,
justify,
perfectly,
distorts me 

I wish not to articulate anymore,
For, how am I
to know
the things only truly understood
by my heart and bones?

Night Fishing

I look out through bigger eyes than I used to at
Elysian skies rich with a sanctity
that stains your teeth like a blackberry  

The waves gag on my hips
then spit me outwards,
riding seaward as they
comb rich white hair,
blown back when the wind turns
water black. 

Leaving me
wine drunk and waiting. 

A boat on unlit ocean curls
under the pressure of the moon,
taking her first bow on a stage
set for 9 in the afternoon. 

And I reach out again and again
with greedy human hands,
clutching what I can reach of the place. 

It's such a quiet feeling.
Like light pouring into a windowless room.
A blank page for me to fill.