Brian Wilson and the Stranger

God Only Knows battles idle chatter,

steamy windows and steamy china cups

as damp raincoats clutter flaking windowsills,

and though he knows that he should focus

on the plot that is being dictated to him

by the seemingly omniscient narrator

he can't help but get drawn into the words

that resonate with his morose soul,

looking blankly at the hot tar

that swirls around in his clammy hands,

avoiding, above all else, those searchlight eyes.

He thinks about the end;

how the year has provided proof that the future

seems almost completely bleak

-though life would still go on believe me-

there is too much malice, egocentrism and hyperbole,

not enough verisimilitude, hope and identity.

Without that glimmer of purpose

that had illuminated his chambers for so long; well...

-what good would livin' do me?-

he'd almost prefer the prospect of uncertainty

than the certain desolation that awaits us all.

He stands up, cutting the chapter short.

Cold to the world, he makes for the door,

resolute in his plunge.

And a stranger holds the door open,

motioning to allow him through.

His icy heart thaws out

and the contempt that had encased his heart melts away

[proof for global warming, Mr. Trump, he thinks bitterly]

as his darkness is replaced by

an intense admiration for the potential of mankind.

-God only knows what I'd be without you-

X Axis

Each year pulls me further to the left,

and I wonder if my standpoint

is an x-axis

and that I am therefore

growing more and more negative

or that it is in fact spherical

and I will come full circle.

Pieces of Autumn

A leaf glides on the water,

and ripples disperse around it;

Crossing over one another as the tree's

lachrymose with the lake, dirty halos

crowning these dead pieces of Autumn.

Passing under the bellies of mallards and Canadian geese,

unmoved and uncaring of the water's caress,

they stretched out like wings to whisper against

the nests of reeds and wrappers stood on the banks.

I wonder where my ripples would reach

tonight, if I was to die and leave.

The world would turn no slower

and the sun would shine no darker.

I'll pass under the bellies of ducks

an unheard voice, a disregarded ripple

Enfolded

Enfolding my breath

into subtle shapes, I cherish

watching them float away silently

as if coerced by a gentle magnetism

into unknown and unseen—the inexplicable—

And this existence we suffer is unpredictable

how could we act with pragmatism

while cascading down violently

into the earth we perish

enfolded in death.

Caught

I walked heady into the sweet,

damp night, however caught I was in its

leverage.

The dog across the street whined for me, impetuous, drummed

my porous skin into air,

like a mother praying for their child, making 

me alive again,

embryonic.

Sunspots blossomed over the fullness of night, and 

I curled, ashamed, inside 

their morning light.