The (New & Improved) Poetry Barn and Eatery

little rat hearts

pumping adrenaline

attempting to revive remaining flesh

i feel the claws searching for purchase

for escape

i swallow them down forcefully

and keep them for myself

as

im the one who uses them

intimate secretaries raise their hands

and swallow the keys

amid the smoke

the secrets of the linear timeline

cause and effect

lost forever to the fires

that once defended the castle

and now

facilitate the siege

The video was shot over the Arctic Circle, right between the borders of Canada, Alaska and Russia. It took only a few seconds to shoot a truly stunning landscape in every sense of the word.

This phenomenon can only be seen once a year for 35 seconds. The moon appears in all its glory to such an extent that it seems that it is about to collide with the earth, and immediately after that there is a total eclipse of the sun for only 5 seconds, during which it suddenly becomes dark, and then the light returns.

This phenomenon occurs only at the perihelion point (the point where the Moon is closest to the Earth), and then we can see the enormous speed with which our planet is moving.

In solace or tragedy, still

Are you fighting a losing  game

trying to bring back civility?

Like a modern Don Quixote

It's been a few years now

And even though I wish you well,

most of the time,

when I reminisce a kaleidoscope

of migrating monarch butterflies surround me

Their wings sharp as knives

Old  wounds reopening;

My chest once again bares

My body once again breaks

My mind once again escapes

So, when my fingers linger over the "call" button

I remind myself that nostalgia is just a burning house

that was never a home

So, I smile and turn my grieve into a hymn

May it find you well

May solace find you well

A Poem’s Wants

.

A poem wants

to be a photograph

in the same way

a photograph wants

to be a painting

and a painting wants

to be a song that

wants to be a love letter

in the same way

a love letter wants

Idyllic like first love

And beating down like the summer sun

Waiting for a softer day

To introduce the marvel of creation

As yesteryear turns to hollow wine

Even bitter tears in sunset shine

And life is left behind, these days it seems

There's always these days

These avenues are always there unwalked

The halls are sunlit and hold our lives

It almost seems we won't leave

But we will breathe free one day, and leave all this behind

While the bird of morning weeps and yearns

Flying into the sunrise

Drunken with the bittersweet wine of parting

And memories, always the memories

But some will be true

And some will hold these days to light

Never from the corner of my eye will I forget you

People think the middle of the night belongs to poets. That we wake, touched by a breeze of ideas, and walk to the desk barefoot, pen hovering over paper like a divining rod.

I can tell you it doesn’t work that way. The hours between two and four are for the unfinished business of the body and the mind. They are for old debts, for vertebrae that complain in Morse code, for a sink that still smells faintly of onions.

Once, at a gallery opening, a man in a velvet jacket asked me what I dreamed of when the moon was high. He looked at me as though I ought to say a staircase spiraling out of the sea, or a woman standing in a doorway holding a golden lantern.

Instead I told him: the hum of the refrigerator is too loud in my apartment. He blinked, took a sip of his wine, and looked for someone with better material.

He didn’t know that the hum is my own heart in the quiet, counting off the years I meant to live differently. He didn’t know that every night, I see the half-packed suitcase on the top shelf of my closet and remember all the places I didn’t go.

Not connected to God,

Not connected to Love,

Not connected to Family,

Not connected to Church,

Not connected to Community,

Not connected to Work;

There is a kind of connection in all of this not-connecting

A connection to lack

lighter for this not knowing

empty, untethered

simultaneously free and damned

__🪶

.

i'm in my fat elvis stage

banana's on the counter and bacon in the fridge, peanut butter and bread waiting

side burns hanging off my fat fucking face

and you know i'm scared to sit on the shitter

Orion

Held up in the stars. A blur

Of colour, gradually

Forming, exposed.

How can something so beautiful,

Something so ecstatic and bursting

Be far? In our reach

Yet elusive.

Reach up to the sky,

Holding the ground still. We

Can reach you, Orion.

We’re here. So human.

I saw the moon, it looked so bright

I wrote a rhyme about the sight

But then came lawyers, what a fright-

taking your time...

both the easiest

and hardest

of the arts

to perform

and perfect

.

My dear friend, even if you do not name them, you carry universes inside. Which one do you want to dream first?

The one where your voice shapes stars? The one where your silence grows wings? Or the one where forgotten memories begin to remember you?

you name it process

we disagree as it is customary

growing sensations posing as findings emanate from rivulets and fountains inviting us to bathe therein

drowning may also be a ritual which you label process also but rightfully so

so let us gather behind Gare Saint-Lazare beneath the station clock to consider this

i'm not resisting intelligence. i'm resisting insulation.

there’s a difference.

I'm saying, when it comes to strangers, essays, problem-solving, drafting, even collaboration - tools are tools. but when someone looks me in the eye and says I love you… i want to feel the tremor in it. the uneven breath. -the risk.

intimacy isn’t just information transfer. It’s exposure.

If a machine smooths the sentence, it may also smooth the vulnerability. and sometimes the vulnerability is the whole point.

there should be some small friction- the long pause. the almost-wrong word. the sentence that starts brave, and ends uncertain.

it takes courage to say something without a safety net.

ah

the wonderful

life

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ah the great life

the wonderful

life

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