To speak truth into the wind with consequence,
find a precipice with a harrowing drop.
Collect your thoughts; choose clear, concise speech.
Mind the approach; carefully watch your step.
Craggled edge, the view reaches out for you—
OH, FUCK!
My truth, my last words.
fa-
fall-
falling…
Into the wind with my entire being.
What is the matter,
this whole life?
Sky so blue.
Rocks,
zoom into view.
Category: Poetical
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speak truth into the wind
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Hope and Foreboding in This Cold Intermingling
Whether this
is what we hoped for, or deserve,
this is what we have.
Whether this
leads to the sublime, a disaster,
or something unimagined,
this is where we are.
Branches above dusted by snow
and roots below frozen in soil,
unconditionally held in (s)now.
Somewhere in their midst,
here we lie,
pretending and often wishing
to be apart from all this.
There will be no separation,
from any of this —We are between.
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Saturnalia
A Roman festival with food, gifts, prolonged partying and a sacrifice to the god Saturn? That’s interesting, sure, but let’s forget the gods, reinvent this shindig and make it about the planet itself. — Nine times wider than Earth, but density low enough to float in the largest imaginable bathtub. A day in just under 11 hours and a year at 29.4 of Earth’s. Over 140 moons in orbit, some large, others small. AND THOSE RINGS! Made of fragments of comets, asteroids, and broken moons from afar – all held together by your undeniable gravity. Or is it just a wish to be near you, dear Saturn? Eight rings in total, D-C-B-<insert Cassini Division here>-A-F-G-E—Phoebe (last, not forgotten). Let’s meet at the Cassini Division (between B and A), measuring 2,920 miles wide; room enough to dance and swirl among your magnificent rings while swilling brews with soft amber hues matching your light yellow shades. Or, at home, we’ll get a big telescope to gaze upon you from afar. In small groups we’ll discuss our favorite features, such as that impressive magnetosphere (mmm, dat ass) – 578 times more powerful than Earth’s. Or that spectacular hexagonal storm in the north with constantly swirling 200-mile-per-hour winds. Behold, such intensity! Matched only by our immeasurable gratitude for your place in this solar system and, after enough drink and loving discussion, your unwavering orbit around our hearts.
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Dinnertime Slang
daughter rambling about low-key, high-key this and that
while I bring the noise in the key of bees, a tired old
pugilist throwing punches in the air, nothing there!
carrying on about made-up words and nonsense noise,
but in the end it all falls short, teenage slang or not—
even to say, “I love you”; it could be a lifetime
to know how far that goes, and another lifetime to
trust what is quiet and unspeakable between us.
…
My daughter is 13-years-old. The verses in the poem have 13 syllables each. I love her dearly, slang and all.