She's a Mighty Pretty Snowflake You Don't See

There are explosions
Behind my eyelids:

I can feel a winter breeze,
Descend through the canopy of pines
On the evergreen trees. They shake
The smells of Egypt and Russia,
The desers and the tundras of this world

All ride alongside each microscopic
Snowflake;

I cannot see them tonight,
But it is early for snow.
I wish to see the specks of ice,

Too warm for snow, a murky soup of mud in place.

My eyes are closed,
Watery eyed, I smile thinking about the snowy prospect
Of January.

Beatnik Prayer # 2

Snowing beaches,
nature's perfect contradiction,
but
Where are consistent
Evergreens beside highways?

Another roadside
contradiction.

Paradise Notes 2

Perhaps the best claim towards this statement that Satin is the hero of Paradise Lost can be best found in the above question. If one is to contend that Adam and Eve (as the metaphorical parents of mankind)’s fall from grace is a good thing, then who is to blame (or praise) other then the snake Satin himself. He enables an opportunity to lead a purposeful and fulfilling life of forgiveness and redemption with his temptation. Ironically failing on all fronts at disrupting God’s good creation.

Paradise Notes

In John Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” there is a degree of optimism behind his recreation of Adam and Eve’s banishment, the fall man takes from grace. Although at first frighteningly cynical, this world view Milton proposes is oddly joyful: he suggests that because of this Original Sin, man’s life has a new purpose in finding forgiveness and redemption, which is indeed something worth living for.

Garden Thoughts: Fall '09

As the radish blossoms in my mouth,
its delicious bitter juices, lick my lips:

i picture

the rabbits meandering from leafy plot
to leafy plot,
digging into my carrots and chives,
sizing up the last brave daffodils
who the resident deer have spared.

My thoughts wander home,
perhaps to my parents house,
slowly surrendering itself to blankets of leaves,
or maybe I am moving forward,

To some Autumn suburb college town;
and I think of my future garden,

and as the red skin of the vegetable vanishes
I smile wider with each crunch.

On Creation

I am the cogs of a watch,
Spilled on the floor:
An introduction of hardwood to metal,
The tiny mechanism of falling,
The gravity of incomplete,
Smashes the watch and time
Stops.

Here I am:
I am the dust in the seems of a trenchcoat,
During the high noon of summer.
Winter will come in turn,
But the conception of cold burns
In mother's womb's
And there will be birth.

Creation is here,
The eloquent prose of patience,
As fragile as a ticking pocket watch.

As the dust is unshook it dances with flecks of snow,
I am married with glee,
To the idea of newborn
Art.

Friction

I am gazing at the moon,
Embarrassed in its twilight thinking of how
waves and entire oceans move and shake,
at this celestial body's every move.

Self consciously, I scratch the pale,
milky flesh on my forearm,
wondering when my hands will be warm
with your clasp,

Not my nervous friction.