When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
"We get to choose who we let into our weird little worlds."
We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
Rest in peace.
decay quicker than
are more frequent
than shortages of
electricity, oil, or water.
there are cities
while I sleep;
as I lay to rest my eyes
for some hours,
someone who looks
like me rests theirs
I’m not used to being loved. I wouldn’t know what to do.
You are not the heaviness
sitting inside of you.
You are not the battlefield
where the bodies fall,
and you are not the sound of cannons
breaking the sky open.
You are what happens after the war.
You can’t conquer people and build a country on top of them, and then feel offended that they breathe the same oxygen.
oil on canvas. 80 x 70 inches. 2014
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