How we died

Impossibility
lends its charms best to
happiness
honesty --
to be completely is impossible.

Take you and I,
take the world we built and throw it out the window,
let it wither, leave it to parch in the sun
of what was once resplendent
in its beauty, in its hope.

To what do we owe the immensely human desire
to put up walls, constructing snares of refusal?
I have lost all desire to scale yours
any more that you do mine,
perhaps.

And yet -- remember -- the time
when mountains moved? When fingers searched
for a pulse in another, no matter how feeble,
and rejoiced in knowing
it was there?

Missing Mr. Keating

This tribute will probably get lost in the outpour following his passing but still.

I grew up watching Robin Williams and at one time, I wished he would magically turn up at school to holler at my ear, "Seize the day!" He was a lot of things: talented, funny, clever, intelligent, and sad. Like most of us, he was all these interesting things and he was sad, too.

Always and never just or only. 

Because we can be a lot of these interesting things and also be sad. Sometimes the sadness can be all encompassing; it can be so big and complete and we feel powerless at its enormity. But sadness does not invalidate the other beautiful parts of ourselves although it has a tendency to stay.

I presume it held on than necessary and we have, thus, lost a tremendously talented man. There is a story here somewhere. Even in his passing, like his movies, he leaves us with a lesson.

Rest in peace, dear Sir.

Fragment 5 on the 2nd

"Poems are never just poems. They're compensating for something. Here are the words I wish I had written in crescent-shaped moon bite marks down your neck. Here are a hundred words for stay, and a hundred more for please. Here is how I hold a pen. Here is how the pen holds me. Here are my thoughts, over-steeped in empty fervor. Here is nothing and everything all at the same time."