Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Ferris Wheel

We’ve forgotten what it feels like when 
our stomachs clench as we go 
over and down the arch. 
Life is a circle, and the view never changes, 
sometimes the light fades or brightens 
but we’re on a ride of stationary momentum. 
We’ve been watching the roller coaster, 
and carnival kids for so long that 
the strobe lights and gleeful screams of 
panic or excitement 
sound exactly the same. 
Spinning and spinning--
Restrained on our axis,
making a full tour around the sun 
waiting for a supernova. 
Maybe we should enjoy the show. 
The lackadaisical dizziness and moments without form-- 
the perpetual party and destruction going by, 
orbiting on a ferris wheel 
we go by unfazed.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Monsters and Marvels

Humming monotony
and radio waves
that flood through your ear drums,
like rain drops gathering in
iridescent
puddles
that shimmer
in the fading
moon-beams,
causing ripples of chaos
and a high pitched wailing--
of a mother wolf
that bawls and bawls
into the silence,
and is silenced by
silent oppression
that causes each of us
to be quiet.
As each person drowns
in oxygen
that flows down the trachea
and floods each passage,
as icebergs melt
and waves capsize
and the world keeps spinning
perpetually,
and the sun that judges
and scalds,
blisters each of our 
existences
in attempt to wake us
from our eternal slumber,
where the bombs crash
while flowers grow--
the sweet contradiction
of glory and glamour
that goes and goes and goes
in cycles
that tumble
in the washing machine
bleaching the colored fabric
of humanity,
fading the diversity
of each stitch in time
as life-times repeat,
but the music keeps 
moving 
and pulsing 
and writhing
in contractions
that bear both 
monsters and marvels.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Russian Dolls

A bird fell.
Dropped out of formation.
Had a heart attack.
Fell from the sky.
I don’t adventure far, the sun could swallow me, and the dark--it lurks with shadows. Jets travel so fast, their trails escape them. I’ve seen birds die from the tipping of a paper crane; the anxiety of falling and failing, in front of judging stares. 
There’s stacked Russian dolls cozied up inside me, and they bicker like siblings or generations. My therapist suggested a misdiagnosis, which cracked one doll out of another, creating a dispute over my identity. I folded an origami crane, with my otherwise idle fingers and observed it on the windowsill, like a sun dial, or an airplane,
and waited for its decision.