Olympus is dry beaten, defeated by thousands of plebeian cruise ship sneakers overwide, overlarge overeaten from endless complimentary buffets the poets are gone taken a wage chained themselves to hours linked to step, like the masses the edges of their prose smoothed by rain and recession while the muses weep not from pain but boredom. …
What will you be when life isn’t going up or down or sideways every other day when your heart says “enough” and decides that silence is also ambient music when contentment is preferable to amazement when peace of mind finally wins over emotion. Will you change your clothes to show how you feel inside throw …
storm it pretends in countless ways that it is more than water drenching the ground to weaken it drowning the innocents to dissuade the sun from showing two truths: that everything gives that takes away and none matter but change and our worship of it. (c) Copyright Gerardo San Diego
the streetlamps dim to push sleep past the sidewalk up through windows into bedrooms, like an ether with a deep breath that never exhales collapsing with the smog and the traffic until asphalt footsteps are as loud as the ringing in your ears and four o’clock comes from endless birdsongs courting darkness as if it …
Daybreak tells my reading lamp that it is not needed anymore.
peppers on my tongue, day, you make me remember delaying the water and the milk and the rest, and the rest that tasted better because, it all.
Between the rise and fall of a leaf caught in a persuasive breeze comes a moment of pause, of reflection. The roof and the ledge, and the paint, and how they all change the direction of the wind, unless it chooses the height of a cloud. The storm and the ocean, and the beckoning warmth …
Meme Cat look at my picture a half dozen times ooh and aah and make that animal-loving aww sound then click “like” and go away, to the next heartwarming story to your day filled with choices and sunlight and many many windows I would like just one window, my own with a …
I’m afraid for the man on the wire of the world spinning out of a control from a ledge of a stick breaking pieces of a brick dusty hammer swinging thick through the glue of a paper tearing crooked like a crack like a window in the back missing color lose a thrill kick a …
I miss the safety of the old days, before we became corrupted by false responsibilities.
Time can be a liar, a joker, a magician, a fool, and a navigator. It will try to make you think that where you are is a permanent place, right before it tries to make you think again a second later. And when it has convinced you that nothing lasts, and nothing is worth keeping, …
Harold did find himself faced with a crime Overload outlets with more than two wires A task much too easy, stores will agree They stock extension cords ‘numerably ‘Twasn’t enough that a T.V. suffice ‘Long with a radio singing so nice He went out and bought a Beta machine In case he might miss a …
Let us not speak these words only once a year, or once a month, or once every week, at a specified moment and place, in the presence of others. Instead, let us be reminded of them, and be caretakers of them, with every single breath that we take, beginning now. May we understand ourselves without …
Although I’ve dreamt of nightmares Hover deep and frighten me, And though they keep the wonder, Always hoping not to see, I’ll close a pair of living eyes And stay them tight, til the sun has come– For nights are used to hauntings Of people never done. I vaguely know the smell of them, But …
You knew that if you didn’t stay on top of the beat the beat would have its way with you. Your prayer of music wouldn’t be as sincere if you had followed someone else’s prayer. Your sound, almost indecipherable but we can hear your unrelenting effort, your patience carved as a psalm for us, right …
You keep going until your limbs catch a fever until your world becomes nothing but this one straining moment rewarded by a globe of air that you gulp down like instant mercy, giving you one more curl one more step one more crunch one more push one more past the number you thought was impossible …
in every moment a world is created a novel is written in the mind then burned as excess memory every bitterness is sweet every taste is reassessed to match the perfect vowel with the perfect tempo held in the hand and squeezed until there’s nothing but pulp every black becomes white and every white becomes …
We gather at the failing tide singing our harbinger songs while dawn casts its amber net of morning. Then moonlight turns to a doubtable haze that sharpens to reveal the edge of a confident horizon Unyielding, unstoppable, it forces us to bury our petty woes under sand. Enough, it says Begin the day, it says …
you taste the day age from ochre to sienna, grinding its color in your mind watching the sun burn to ashes through the wait staring it down, staring it down until it winces from realizing that it has no power to make you yield just as it never had power to grant a yes.
you breathed life into yourself and carried the footfallen dirt of your third world into this first one knowing that the timbre and reluctant pace of your voice will always be more revealing than the fingerprints you bring on your brown hands, the color that you hide in your pockets, masked in a new heritage …