Just practicing writing with a flex pen (modified Noodler’s Creaper), by writing out one of my old poems.
You were born to battle.
A hand grenade’s entrenched
between your lungs, ticking
down, at war
with your own existence.
Yet when your head falls
against your lover’s chest,
you do not grieve to hear
No one ever suffered
who didn’t give a damn.
So when you’re entangled
in your lover’s limbs
and the weekday alarm
calls you to lay siege,
make peace —
make love —
between your heartbeats.
Your mind is a shark, moving
for a living.
In the depths, layered currents flow;
but when you dive
below the waves of daily life,
you cease to hear your thoughts and believe
you have found
darkness and emptiness.
The pressure is too high; you want to rise
back to the surface, where words tell
you what you’re thinking:
dishes, bills, annoyances, neediness —
all those little quandaries.
But the deepest current is not
silent or still or barren.
It’s quicksilver at lightspeed, too fast
to hear, too refined for words.
Here, at maximum depth,
is you, your soul:
the thoughts you can only feel
in your gut, the thoughts you must enact
or else sink.
You, a soul, free-fall
at the speed of time, a comet
hewn of ancient rock, waiting
only to awaken, to feel.
is never what you think.
It’s to be aware
of solar wind dancing
on your surface, tugging
at your edges —
the first sense
of sense itself —
and to surrender, to collide
with this immovable experience,
your first lover.
You birth life.
You become you:
a soul traveling at timespeed
with the wind in your hair.
saw physicists kitted out with clockwork swords
and atomic muses, half-mad with an old velveteen dread
from childhood existential ventures
back when monsters were real. As grown-ups they were soldiers-
turned-philosophers, knapping their obsidian equations into
the only weapons that could pierce the beasts’
too-vivid eyes, so they might pluck them out and see
through æther into everything.
He sucked on recycled air like a cigarette, wired. Around
him, the world rested on levers and valves and electric
angels, in suspense before the first collision: the moment
he was paid to document for the unlike-minded
– but he hadn’t slept lately, he’d stayed up reading dry-erase
boards when everyone had gone, and now hallucination crept
into his overwrought ideas, supersaturated fields of
So it seemed to make sense when
he figured colliding particles were like a doubled mind
churning in a violent metaphysical reaction, and the test-run
results were like his kids leaping off the couch,
half-believing they could outwit gravity if they really tried.
He wanted to tell his colleagues, but he was a
self-admitted waste of resources,
having nothing to do with the flightpath of quarks
or scientific creativity.