pollywogs and kites

polywog

all of my friends are already pollywogs,
but i am still a tadpole,
and yet i am expected to leap.

but when i am a frog,
and i look at the milky way,
will it look the same?

they ask me if i eat flies,
but i am still too early,
or maybe i'm much too late.

paper

religious text rests in a box
of sinners who think they've won,
but lo' and behold
the winnings of men
who drink aged wine
in the bourgeoisie.

there's only one thing
that this world wants
and it's not flesh
it's paper and coin.

but there is a girl
who doesn't want paper
or gold or diamonds or dust,

and she spins around
as she frantically seeks
for hearts that still beat and pump blood

beautiful

i can tell you how often i try
to lay down alone and not start to cry
over something so selfish and trivial
as "i am not smart. i'm not beautiful".

and every morning, i look up in fear
at the skeleton hiding inside of my mirror
an excuse for a soul, an uninvited guest
i wish that on these bones, i still had human flesh.

eyes. tears. lips. hands.
the saddest things we may ever know.

kites

the interconnected weaves of thread
that the moon so gracefully revealed
as it shone through his window, and onto his bed
but he was not sleeping, he was dead

as he floated away to the midnight light
he thought about the life he had lived
he wasted all his days eating bread and flying kites
he was content, and blew away into the night.

math

out in this world of fire and ash
we all submit to the men who know math
the sun went dim last night as it split into two
let's pray the men with math will know what to do.

clay

how can you say that this world is fun
when there's nothing here except words
words about violence and money and death
and usery and scales and minds.

there are so many things people want me to have
and some of those things they say i need.
well they say buying things will save me from hell
that material things are better than love

a coffee cup in the morning light
that is made from sundried clay
is just as useful as the one from the store
that cost twenty-five dollars just to hold.

light

in the dark,
in the night,
unaware if your eyes
are opened or closed,
you barely make out,
in the distant smog,
a shimmer of light.
a curious glow
so you get up to walk
towards the starlit reflection
that keeps calling you near.
a misplaced watch?
the midnight due?
the grass is getting tall.
you carefully step
past a barbwire fence
to the wistful light.
you're finally here.
you can tell what it is:
just the glistening eye
of a young stray dog,
and as it runs away,
you are again alone,
and you wonder,
in the dark,
if the shine of your eyes
will attract the attention
of someone as lonely as you.

february 20, 2021