season

his notes throw my brain
back to winter, cold and ice
he’s so good at that
everything freezing, everything leaving
rushing past me
going to places — I want to go
his keys spark my sleepy memories
my eyes explode with
those open fields and dying trees
my heart melts with burnt clouds
and those magical fading leaves

former

must have been a thousand years old,

those scars on her hand

when she forgot her looks and

her dreams ran out the door

yet

that yellow still makes her dizzy

and her tongue still prefers what’s fizzy

maybe her soul hasn’t lost its spark

maybe she hasn’t lost her life

just yet

futile

it appeared that there were

dead cranes on the side of the road

their graceful necks draped over the curb,

beautiful yet useless

much like our forgotten conversations

it all makes sense now, since I no

longer recognize my

laugh from the photographs

thrown all over the floor

tiptoe around them like a

doomed choreographed ballet,

beautiful yet useless

memory

little white buildings on my right, as I

make the ground ache when I walk.

earth hard, unlike weeks before when

life sprouted up towards the sun.

barren forked trees on my left,

as pale gray clouds leave me

breathless for a moment cause

the air hurts to breathe.

silence, as I go past the frozen mess

that was left before me as I begin my

waiting for the world to act alive again.

inexplicable

I wonder if the freaks of the shattered

doors will get lost

now that the holes are fixed

I doubt they’ll cheer and clap

as we rid them of their destruction

but

I like the way the bright color

adorns the walls in this space

as I wonder how long your peaceful

calm will stay in this place

this

this beauty gots to even out the ugly 

the motion gots to keep you steady 

yet every day is just the same

left is right, this way is that way

the sun is square, the sky is brown 

your sad is mad, your up is down

the beauty gots to even out this ugly

this hope gots to get you ready 

 

 

friday

the beach was littered with red that night

near the end of September

the sun was mourning the end of its reign

the fact that he’s so blazing here year-round

was little consolation

he gave himself a pity party

I just remained and enjoyed the constellations

rage

I wonder if the Hulk ever hit his mother.

Did he ever graze her cheek

with his massive green fist so fast,

so hard, she couldn’t speak?

Throw her out of his room,

out the window, out of the house?

And I wonder if when he returned to normal,

did he recognize her scars, her hurt.

I bet he couldn’t remember–like him.

Darts his eyes from the display of pain.

Doesn’t move when she flinches away.

Doesn’t recognize the tears

because he can’t remain.

And I wonder if Stan Lee understands

what it really means to love the Hulk?

To stand in his way regardless.

The supernatural drive to help him stay calm,

despite the horror, despite the harm.

The relentless love at stake…

all the tender, godforsaken love it takes.