Star Fields

At night we lay with each other
a human
and a feline
across a place of star fields
we dream

Penthius
Prosthylkass
Zyvar

Places of the endlessly living

Bent fist and paw
we claw
back to mortalhood

With the sun bleaching out
what was known of spirits

we wake to live with
and love each other
not knowing why we love

what has been made amongst
the particles
pronounced in arrangement

Consciousness Misunderstood

Consciousness comes in
and it pours into us

Like the surf rolling in

And it ripples and riptides

Crustaceans and sunshine fumble

Pebbles mix and carbon replaces

And that consciousness never dries up

It wades and bays

Then it withdraws
leaving
an imprint
that lasts a billion years
and
is then replaced with something infinite

holistic, continuous,
individual when needed
and squarely incomprehensible

I mean, everlasting

You are
I was
We now

I love you Leslie

Some Pass, Some Pass Away

Folds of skin
sat on a plate in a friend’s kitchen.
People talked about the skin,
associated it with this friend
when its vision was requited in their memories.

Eventually, most fell out of touch
with the owner of Plate,
but never did they forget the blooming gore
of that Georgia O’Keeffe-like still life.
In fact,
many are reminded daily,
when they eat tortillas dipped in chili,
when chili is poured atop a hot dog,
when they go to sleep at the end of such days.

… “Folds of skin
sat on a plate in a friend’s kitchen.
Who was that? Whose plate was that?”

Let Us Go Watch

Let us go watch while

the long rays of sunset

draw its light out

into the woods.

Made celebrants of darkness.

Life everlasting.

Here in this moment.

But also always all around.

Let those photons

bend our corporeal presence

to something angelic,

something where forgetfulness

and remembrance

is humbled by insignificance

of awe.

I’ll take tea with her,

in the club of existential poets.

Make me out of stars, fair father.

Tell me I am queer, dear weird,

dear mother.

Oh god, mothers are always

left apologizing.

God damn left handedness.

Let the day turn.

The trees stand.

Vines grown gnarled and green.

Trees reach out.

And the light will find its way.

Books closed and written

in the stupidity

of Earthling humans.

And night borne of morning words.

That old cellular way of consciousness.

Love and radiation.

Night Run Syntax

I went to the night
and I wanted to run
further and further
into the star fields above.
Into the past.
Past my own people
and their adoration of
gender and tyrants,
drunk on power,
desperate without it.

For
the people here are slaves
to desperation.

Insignificant in space,
yet precious in form.

How
can we live content
as dust?

How
can we live
and then take
our form again,
in some manner,
some way?

Further and further
into the star fields above,

I lust.
I pray.
I send signals their way.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Morality And Mortality

I’m wrong.

I’m full of mortality.

Portions of me
were an orange from Valencia.

Portions of me
spoke to my classmates
in an auditorium in college.

Portions of me
walked through the Agora
at midday
with pieces of billion year old
dust all around.

I’m wrong.

I’m full of mortality.

You turn your eyes away from
these words.

You’re wrong too,
opps, wrong again.

The evening sky burns pink
and orange
turning carbon particulates
into our lungs.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

The Inequalities Of Women

She lived
while other women
in her church
died,
got breast cancer,
had heart attacks,
grew old.
Her arms stayed thin
on the bone
while others got fat
and flabby,
marbled with vericose veins
and their breath grew
stale and sour.
She felt the fallen masculinity
in the men around her,
their loss of heroism,
though she loved her husband
nonetheless.
She knows this is what
our way of life offers,
so she lived in the moments in between,
the trips to
the nursing home
to visit friends
and the turning of the
Bible pages.

Three Hundred Fifty Five Million

The waveform people took it.
The form of love between us,
the gravity.
Back to their mansion in the woods,
on a planet
three hundred fifty five million
light years away.
Can you see it leaving in the city?
In every city on the planet,
past the grimey stains
on subway stairs.
The people leaving the cities
to live like the waveform people,
in their woods
three hundred fifty five million
light years away.
Let them walk upon earth and snow
in the winter.
Said the waveform people.
Let them cherish their human
manners.
But the mansion is not there.
Only the blue sky
of the waveform people above.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Humble,Humble Love thumbnail image
Humble, Humble Love (poetry book)

As Molt The Superlands

In the first 100 days
we welcomed you as bone

through the corridor of the white temple,

next we enter the brown one,
for era
and its sunlight.

The beige cities pass on the way
and you walk the outskirts of the crowded districts,

like tourists, you count your days there,

but harvesters with celestial migrations bring
crops, dust, and pollinators
in from the orbitals

until at the last changing of color
you throw away your ribcage,

as you no longer need it,

pressed and known into terrestrial soil,
been done and dispersed in the rain.

Clouds come and go like spaceships
for the bodies
in the journey through the temples.

SuperNations are inconsequential,
as are Kingdoms and SuperLeaders,
encoded information.

The orb is everexistent.

The word is priyama,
the body priyamay.

The deliverance has been delivered.
The breath is threshed.
The stars are ponies.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

M.I.N.E.

We never walk at sundown.

We could live better on this planet.

You hold your dark eyes
and I hold mine too.

If everyone stays inside their house
and guards their possessions
then we’ll call this planet “Earth”.

You have a forehead made of stone.
I remember the scent of stone.

A solar star burns
and
mortals go capturing its light,

but we could live better on this planet

so I guess
you’ll have your possessions
and I’ll have mine.

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin