Sometimes finding myself: Sometimes finding myself hardput in the face of such exponential praise as it was a rare experience growing up. But I am truly grateful. And also learning to flow in the way of things. So, thank you so much Januarily/StarSpared.
In lovers': In lovers' gravitation/attraction to each other, and in the mutual heat produced by their bodies when naked together, they are most like our ancestors, the stars.
A meditation on the erosion:
A meditation on the erosion of meaningful discourse, Just a Single Word moves from the shifting tides of a once‑vibrant exchange to the guarded quiet of those who remember its power. Through coastal imagery and the weight of repetition, it captures the ache of watching language lose its command and the quiet defiance of holding onto its memory.
'Just books!' now there is a: 'Just books!' now there is a novel idea these days! We still have to reclaim the nomenclature- they're basically sold as multipurpose 'storage units' for years now... and advertised as useful as bookshelves optionally.
Dear Topsyturnsylad, the: Dear Topsyturnsylad, the moon’s still lounging in its bus‑seat dreams while Cthulhu hums Bob Marley to a row of flamingos crunching popcorn like it’s the end of the world and the start of the circus. The court’s handed me a fistful of stardust as penance, Godzilla’s tapping his foot for that long‑overdue mixtape, and somewhere between puff and poof I’ve slipped behind the vending machine, grinning in the shoelace‑shadows. The birds are still shrieking, the planet’s still a poisonous turtle, and yet here we are, two cosmic mischief‑makers swapping postcards from the edge of the dream.
The moon leans back in its bus‑seat throne, eyes half‑closed, humming a reggae lullaby while Cthulhu, all tentacles and tenderness, feeds popcorn to flamingos in the front row.
The court’s verdict is a jar of stardust, spilling through my fingers as Godzilla waits, tail swaying to a beat only he can hear, still wanting that mixtape you swore you’d send.
I haven’t vanished — not really. I’m just folded into the vending‑machine shadows, shoelaces tangled in the pulse of the night, watching the poisonous turtle planet spin and thinking how lucky it is to have another dreamer out here on the edge.
Far too many of us are: Far too many of us are focused on Moses' burning bush moment that it's too easy to overlook that we all have our individual and unique barefoot day before the LORD. This poem shows me that that all is not lost.
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