The lions roar is very loud–
He voices his power just like a god,
And none would ever doubt
The terror as it strikes them down,
But lions know little of courageous things.
We are now so tolerant,
so willing, that intelligent people
are unable to speak freely
I will predict that all could end.
That time should slip
and suns should burn
Among the world’s most pressing ruins
artifacts come rising as phoenixes
parting their form from the fierce driven wind
and sand that whirls around in its dying
hour of enjambment with earth and sky.
We poets do not live
within the confines of margins;
poetry itself lives
as the newspaper
and anchorman read
Nothing is more disappointing,
nothing so uncared-for
as one that knows let down,
I wished that love
was not far-flung
as foreign coasts
What if I made you change
your ideologies today?
there’s babies soft and strange
and hungry human hearts at play
where algorithms dare not go.
Oh, man, they’re gonna make it look like suicide
and type a note on how life is not all joyrides
A.I. is the genie,
and we are the question;
Everyday was exactly the same,
and the night did nothing,
and staying weighed me like an elephant
This is the law,
the rule of nature eternal,
the force for which we name
There is a gypsy in her hair;
a place where I slip off to breath,
a paradise of spring and new born things,
a playground made of laughter’s glee.
The ever decreasing minutes of day
trickle like the granules in an hourglass;
Do not fall for a man like me
I am not blind; I do not see.
I am the reason storms have names
On workdays he’d get up,
worn as the mattress’s springs,
and put on his dad face.
I’d sometimes see him through the cracks
How many year ago
did the carpenters tools
to understand the world?
Ever since the first grass blades gathered
beneath the feet of wandering birch trees
those little leafs have made us leap and flee;
our hips an Eocene launch toward hazards,
There is an apocalypse in my chest,
and there is a bluebird beating its wings.