Sea of Stars

I have camped across the nation.

Slept under velvet skies of Yellow Stone,

Of Adirondack,

Of the Porcupines,

And never seen the velvet glisten.

My sprawls across nature; objectified.

Goals, attainable, require rest...

Too exhausted to stare at velvet

After eight miles on foot

Through nature's bounty.

I need to

Reinvent objectivity; my goals

I must seek out the velvet and it's glean

This is what populates my conscious

While in the vast sound stage

In front of the lens - glassy - it glistens

Like a star.

Like a star....

...Look at all these here; all of them

This stage, this scene,

We are all a single frame - 

Instances

- Looking back at one another,

But this is a lie; a deception

of our own vanity.

I have a story, twenty four years long.

They have a story...

They have a story...

We burn.

We burn to shine,

Every dot on this canvas...

Triumphant tales of conquer we dream

to regale to some gussied reporter on ET

Define us, lens.

Make a sea of stars shine.

Lap velvet over us,

Over our worn hopes.

Make a sea of stars, we dream.

Soup at Zuma

The air hums amicably.

Crisp Wednesday midnights

make for good company

on long-kneaded days as these.

Five dollars will fulfill their destiny

tonight, at Zuma on Old Woodward,

where a Pink-haired, wired thing

strikes a smile and the register drawer.

The Minestrone noodles fold

and slop over themselves, like the day,

working against their midnight hour

resolved to stay noodles long as possible.

There's no need to chew.

The small heap of vegetarianism works

its way down into my abyss and says,
"Goodnight," like the day

Tuesday Morning

This is the rhythm that never ends.

Each foot forward is progress;

Is Discovery

Of the topic we shan’t ever write of,

Architects of snappy culture.

Scrutinizers of syllables

Or so I've been told by some

And myself

(and disregarded many a time might I add).

I have watched sails burn in furious stride

And even burned my own in name of it.

(a few times in fact)

Holding ashes, I think we all contemplate

The cinders that stain our palms

That we so choose to inhale,

Harvesting cancer in our breath.

Gratefully, the ashes have cooled and settled

I walk with them in small jars,

Contained and appropriately labeled,

So not to jumble the contents

Or let it spill upon me and others

As I walk to the rhythm.

It is remarkably paced.

It is constant;

A heartbeat in meditation.