cells [a poem]

sun burn, when all your uncovered cells are given flamethrowers and a hot shower trades  drops of comfort for gasoline—embarrassment is like that Continue reading

Sludge [a poem about the Universe]

primordial.soup2

what if an asteroid shot it’s way past Jupiter and through our atmosphere?
what if it rocked earth off course and sent us out rogue into space?
would we find another star?
a g2? or a super giant that would swallow us up?
what if we launched off on a rocket to look for another home?
perhaps a super earth would solve our overpopulated city problem
twice the space
what’s on the other side of a black hole?
is that where slender man came from?
stretched his way through a wormhole faster than light can go?
why are our bodies so fragile?
why are our lives so short?
did methuselah really live nearly a thousand years?
was it because we had a thicker atmosphere back then?
or because eating unprocessed foods was the only available option?
is that part of what’s killing us at barely a tenth of methuselah’s lifespan?
where does god live?
is hell really fire forever?
why would satan stay?
doesn’t he have any power or real estate savvy?
is that the last thing we know: heaven and hell?
if everything in the universe is predetermined, life has no purpose
and this class along with every action guided action means nothing at all
are we no better than primordial sludge?

photo credit: crystalinks.com

irises

pictures from before i was born, before papa got sick
he looked like a fine young soldier, even though he wasn’t ever sent to war
he’s with his wife, a friend, a baby, sitting on the stern of a boat
dancing at his daughter’s wedding, white tux, black bow tie

stout face, taut cheeks, sharp smile—i can see his daughter
there’s a few where she’s trying hard to look like him
to look at him, to get him to look at her, to get him to see
a few where i think she’s human

there’s his irises, the old house on dewey ave where nana died
there’s one where he’s shaping gnocchi’s, two hundred at least, all by hand
he called me once at seven am on a saturday to bulk bake
peanut butter pies, months before the microwave burnt the house down

there’s a few right when he got sick: dress, cigarette, head down
eyes down cheeks starting to cave down on his smile
anyone can see she’s his daughter