Repitition, imitation, and sequence.



What does the world see in us?
What does the world see in
straw-stick caps,
chapped-clay lips,
and pupils that carry no consequence?


Please don't,
please don't take these instances
and mistake it for fate.
Please don't forget the
stars, the moon, the night, the
legacies of youth.


don't stop breathing just to
hear the butterfly beat the air.

Life may be just a coincidence,
but the world is not.


We were not options,
nor fortunes,
nor lost generations.
We were not a regression,
nor a depression,
nor a contemplation.
We were not quite human.


perhaps the butterflies can teach us
about the application of bandages
on a long-healed wound;
can teach us about the lacks and lerts;
can teach better than you or I.

perhaps one day
poets won't use those little flying particles of hope
as mere symbolism,
mere words to be manipulated
over and over,
shaped over and over,
into little meanings of nothingness,
over and over.


We are not stranded yet -
the fortress is still open to attack by
rebel senses and heartbreaking verses.
We are not all grown up yet -
the heart is still rendered vulnerable by
scabby fingernails, scratchy records.
We are not ready yet -
our point-blank madness drives us off cliffs.
We are not, not yet.


Can the butterflies see us?
Can they hear our war cries,
taste our acid rain,
smell the rancid machinery?

Can they feel us from within layers,
of twine and little-boy expeditions?


Behind bars, that's all we are.
From below, that's how we see.
The wrong way, that's where we go.
To death, the future is all yours.

No snerky comments about my psyche, please.