Rinse the rice clean,PG
Water it down in weight
Filth to be lifted.
Rinse the rice clean
Let fallaway the few,
water them down the drain
For a life more subdued.
So the rice is rinsed well,
Still murky, but it’ll do.
After all, it’s for the pot,
to be soaked in a hot stew,
And such as all spirit forged seedlings,
It is swelled through and through,
Fogged glasses as proof.
Fluffed rice now to consume
Over the list of loves to be lost.
I’m from a hushed town that silenced me,
and those empty streets drowned,
And I’m quiet because I want to be —
Because snow is falling in California
On our gentle apostolic mountain,
huddled in view,
cradling the junction of change
leading the sorrowful
returned in abundance.
I had forgotten of
the promise to kick you out
over the joy
in seeing you know all
the ways it was without you.
I jumped, feet uncurled
On the peak of my exhale
Knowing what I fell into,
Imagining the finish
Taken by its release;
Of Course, I did.PG
Painted purple skies,
like smooshed berries, are
the night stained in their juice,
fading in color and sweetness.
But the sweetest of them all, that’s blue.
That’s up above me, and you
holding our stars and the birds.
Although it’s a disappearing sight
and a drag of our necks upward
toward vanishing brightness,
that’s where you find the purest fruit.
Shooting through to dark
and falling down with the sun.
Always mixed in color and taste;
often less sweet with only traces.
But those traces carry through
and bleeds into the next dying day.
And it’s no matter the taste or temperature
we are always caught drinking it down,
glimmering specs slip through;
it’s worth the dying:
a taste I’ve acquired from you.
these candles burn with notoriety,
like sex as the practice of service,
a sacred rhythm on the alter.
Their wax bubbles at half mass,
frozen spirit, can we heal yet?
Fire damped on my hands
(face full of sadness, I feel it)
pitied soul, have we starved yet?PG