Tuesday, May 28, 2013

I race the storm.
Air thick with promise.
Trembling clouds.
Possibility is brighter than rationality.
The radio sings and the wind
dances through the window
and across the back of my neck.
Every flash shows the ordinary.
I expect anything.

ideas come,
swept in with the first drops
of cold rain.
Loud company of bright possibility.
A shiver runs down my neck
and I shut the window
before the flash dims.
In the shapes in the dark
I can feel space.

but not alone:
An idea slips in
shivering with potential.
Not brilliant but possibly mad.
The floral-sweet scent of tea
curls from my mug
and mingles with my thoughts.
Nothing will come from this.
Or everything.

Friday, May 10, 2013

Hope in all its forms is false,
the memory determines, but
the more you think, the less
you really know.
Hope is such a tricky thing
to hope to understand and if
you think you’ve got it right
then you should go.

But the path is always empty
and it leads into the sun.

Hope in all its forms determines
what you will remember and
the more I think about it,
you should know
that it burns you from the inside
out into the loss of air. You know,
nostalgia’s got a
futuristic glow.

But the path is always empty
and it leads into the sun.