Knees Turned Velvet

You can now view my new poems on instagram, @kneesTurnedVelvet

My old poems will stay here. I may still update this blog periodically, but it’s no longer the primary home for my poetry.

Blade of grass, reclined in comfort,

O, this, the vanquished symbol of gaiety.

The groups of grapes lowered down into mouths,

where one is plucked, lingually, and caressed...

Sit, now, and look, on the white marble platters

and columns, and steps, and mausoleums.

And on the marble skin, no longer white or made to shine

it's long since been lost to moths, and faded into dust,

and teeth have scattered the earth like seeds.

And there! drowning in the dirt and vines,

the quarantined Colossus stands,

An intelligent breath gasped,

and sent a jolt through my soul.

But my hand slid from its perch

swooping like a great heron,

down to the waters below;

The girl was like a rainy night,

bones and joints of old machinery

squealing, cracking into thund'rous life.

Oiled anew, she breaks into the world,

her clockwork crying in breathy rhythm,

beating down between the teeth of gears

awaiting the hour when the little door opens,

and part of her may spring forth through it.

But look now! The spring has sprung,

and she ticks no more.

I don’t feel as though anything Inside of me, hidden, would, Were it held to a light, Look quite the way I’d expected.

When a great wind tears through the forest

I get the most mystical whoosh inside me

As if I could simply

Dissolve into the tide and be carried away with it.

To be tossed among the leaves and branches

Brushed by the pines and birches,

Gently caressed, as a bird on its cloud-held wing,

To be let down, miles from anything,

To take in nature’s true vacancy

A frigid weekend in June,

And the bugs have stopped their chirp.

From atop the levee, I can see

The receding water, rushing.

The winds are high,

And the hills have finally ceased to be islands.

How are we Still alive?

If we are. If we forever can be.

If we even want to be, in fact.

The double-folded paper

Bends under the weight of itself.

No, not forever.

Forever is the most unappealing

Of all appealing things.

And should I have that power

No, I would not let you, or I,

Live forever.

That is a lot of suffering

To find myself responsible for.

There is a reason

God has stripped us of that burden.

Even us, in all our sin,

Religion should feel Like a morning alone In the forest; The dew velvet upon all, And the quiet chirp of birds.

I kneel down At the stone and wood altar And, heart full of pride, I thank the bounty of nature, For all it has provided me.

Leviathan, O citadelic beast!

Thine eyes cast forth such vivid light.

Thy spine, stretching, between house rafters,

and bridging lands by vaulting rivers!

Your divinity is wasted on us,

though we may, indeed, be eager to please thee!

Thee, O monstrous remembrance.

Thee, O biblical terror!

Swallow up our own sons,

spew them up on distant shores

Come to me, O my darlings,

and lay down thy weary heads;

'tis a drastic and sudden move to make.

Expect it not to be a breeze,

or for thee to go forward anon.

A thing of such importance

must always take time.

Each day rising, we see the turmoil.

We work for our wages, and do not else.

It used to be a man worked the fields,

and directly provided, where now,

once or twice removed are our efforts.

What is it for thee to work without thee knowing why?

Indeed, it is a sorry thing. An empty task,

that only must be fulfilled, without a question;

without that ever present song of thy brain.

Surely you know the song of thy brain.

It is, after all, the tinnitus of life.

One can not rid of it, this song of songs.

The song, of course, is that of purpose.

A purpose in all ye may do.

A purpose in all ye may see,

and all ye may be present for.

A necessarily incessant song,

this song of purpose.

O good workman! O craftsman!

Thy divine knowledge goes beyond!

Without thee, where should we be?!

Still in the comparative darkness?

I have no doubt on it.

But the average worker holds no stake.

He is detached, and why should he not be?

Break free from thy bonds, O treasured tool.

I sat beneath the bending boughs,

And brought to my lips a pinkest flower,

So exquisitely wrought, I rattled with joy.

A bitter flority tore through my tastebuds,

And I thought it fitting, a bud should receive a bud.

A soft buzzing of bees was around,

And I felt the more peace knowing so.

I was kneeling now, in lawless luxuriances of green,

unable to keep so low in the natural divinity.

I looked up, spotting the spotted sky,

And the soft warmth of the scattered sun,

And couldn’t help but think

Of the Summer, all those years ago,

When we sat in the forest, beside the lake,

And brought our own vivacity

To the already deafening life

He watched with shocked eyes,

As I sang from the soul of my soul,

And I boarded the ship, unsure where it would lead.

He stood on a roof by the pier, barefoot;

An odd choice for the time of year.

And as my ship pulled away,

He stepped forward, foot just clearing the edge,

And there he plummeted down,

As I watched from the comfort and detachment

Of that ship I could not turn back.

But before he hit the ground,

If, indeed, he did hit the ground,

I heard him sing from his soul

A prayer I didn’t recognize

Until he got to the final verse,

“Flee from evil and do good,