My World Used To be an Ocean.

My world used to be an ocean

with sea levels above the ground.

All I had was the surface of the sea,

and the sun above

reflecting the world,

and me.

Oh, those images on

the rippled sheet of sea,

these were scenes I won't forget

the reflective sailor I used to be.

In and on the sea

I saw the story

I wanted to tell

the world of sea men.

When my world was an ocean

there was the unchanging sea

wearing the face I put on that day.

And behind the horizon

there was always a mermaid

sitting alone

waiting

while singing a serenade

behind an embracing

sky and sea.

Then the sea levels dropped,

revealing some opaque soil

and solid grounds.

First was a light house

to tall for me to climb,

along with islands

whose language I don't speak.

Then the grounds were revealed, with their

inhabitants who speak so loud

and the mirror was concealed

by a sun blocking cloud.

And the few who take to the ocean

do so to swim, not to reflect

on the sheet of reflecting reality

they have just splashed.

The world of soil reflected nothing

of my face, but the sand did

get in to my eye.

As I trotted along the shore

of forgotten horizons

that shared a sun.

On dry land

the sun only burns

the face that looked up,

while searching for a clear plane

amidst the chaos of sand.

On the ground it's either human or fish,

and the sky and sea never embrace.

While the dropping sea levels

increase their pace.

And the sailor sits on a bench

under a shadow casting tree,

while with his shoes

he writes in the sand

a thought that will be washed away

by the tide of a low level sea.

Blood.

I turned my blood into ink
and spilled it on a vienless sheet
and I sent it to through the bodiless
channels called mail.

I peeled my bruises and
shaved my scars
and put it into an envelope
with no sensory glands
as I painted my burns
on a sheet drier than bones.

But it will not satiate the vampire's hunt
For not all blood is equally blue
and not all ink is equally red.
Not every burn sits on a plate
and not every scar can be fed.

I prepared a meal,
to serve the Beast
that worships pain.
I told him of the journey
where I started with baby skin.
And the road that made me hairy
and rouged, till I lost
the soft flesh of infancy.

On the table
the one who dines gets to choose,
which bone is worth the cut.
That one will get the gift of the oven
and the height of leavened bread.

But the competition
that measures fruition
is not fair with its count.
For the ease
of taking the disease
assumes that all was peace
before the start.

For some
the scar is skin
and the flesh is a sin
that isn't told.
And the ink needs first
to become blood
that runs under the scalp.
And the bruise is the body,
and the face is a burn
of the first degree.

For those, the peeling skin is whole
and the broken bone is complete
And the pain is felt
when the limbs melt
to become like an infant child you see.

But that kind of pain
doesn't make a meal
for the diner gets to decide
which sorrow is real.
A broken bone is something to show
while a whole body is something we all know.

So my vein's ink doesn't dry
and the surgical procedures I endured
are no story to tell.
For scissors that mend
are not like scissors that cut.

All that is left is the corridor
with the feast to its right,
and its reserved seats
for those
whose blood is white.

The Wind.

Every city has a cemetery,
towns have 'em too.

The cemetery is flat land
surrounded by gates,
and dead bones
unsurrounded.

The wind flies freely
above the dead
Uncaptured, unconfined,
Untrapped.

Back in the city
The wind struggles through
the walls and gates
of societies fruit.
The wind has to fight
until it reaches the nostrils
of Adam and Eve
running up a stair case
of a sky scrapping tower.

In the city,
the wind bangs and roars.
Unlike the cemetery,
where it quietly floats
above those who let the wind out.

The wind hovers
above the cemetery's field.
For there amongst the dead
the secret is told
that the night is old
And the wind holds its surprise
for those that rise
at the early hours of the day
to the crying sound of the wind
swimming through the obstacles of
civilization.
Wrapping towers
as it hugs the glass
that just kissed the wood
of the windowsill.

The wind runs through the narrow alleys
that barely have room for two.
And the holes in the walls
let the wind run through
and chill the bones of a child
as the wind whistles it a lullaby
of free flying winds
under blue skies.

Brick and cloth
all keep the wind out.
Leaving it to wiggle the young trees
whose leaves fall
into the hands of troubled winds
who have traveled through cities and walls,
choked by the scrapers in the sky.

Back in the cemetery
the wind flies freely
amidst those who lye in sand
easily blown by the wind.
The wind doesn't whistle or hymn
and there is no glass to hug and kiss.
Just space for wind and wind for space
above a sheet of soil
hiding those who have become like wind
themselves.

Hypatia

I admire your intelligence,

I really do.

All your philosophy, and thought.

all your names.

I love to discuss them with you,

I love to play those mental games.

Oh, how your ideas

blind my minds eye.

I want to hear more

I really do.

And did I mention,

you're the most beautiful person I know.

Sorry, for going off topic,

as far as your ideas go.

But I can't help but notice,

your tender eyes,

and waving hair.

They are real to me,

even with my minimal vocabulary skill.

And your gentle hands

that turn the pages 

you read while you lie calmly

under the eclipsed sun.

I notice that too,

even though

I can't formulate the question

it's supposed to respond to.

I am juggling thoughts

or perhaps I'm rotating

minds.

Listening to Athena in your voice

and Aphrodite in your eyes.

Can I worship more than one Goddess?,

Or maybe I can just do one sacrifice.

I wonder how many pantheons I can call my place,

As my thoughts and visions grow to proportions

I've yet to learn to embrace.

 

I like to stick to your ideas

and your intellectual feats. 

Directing my attention 

to your novel claims

and accomplished tasks.

I hear what you ask,

I have an answer,

but I can't say it.

Because my planned explosion 

has just imploded

in the frontal cortex of my juggling brain.

If you would slow down

I would follow you 

to your windowless room.

And I'll look out through the

crack in the ceiling I just made.

And I'll also read some of your books

I know you are mentioned in quite a few.

I'l try to concentrate on what they say,

if I manage 

not to get distracted by you.