sitting in front of the heater, breathing in

this was something that just sort of came out while i was in class. not that i often lose focus enough to write poems, but every once in a while i find an excuse to distract myself from lecture; or rather, the excuse finds me after i have already floated off into the smoke that lingers in my thoughts. i don't mean to space out, and by no means is it a frequent occurrence, but this time, when i realized that i hadn't been listening to anything my professor had said in the last forty-five minutes or so, i laughed at how much it reminded me of high school. what little time i spent there. 

i fucking hated high school. with a sincere passion. anyway, i digress... the title of this piece is where i thought i'd rather be while i was writing it. 

sitting in front of the heater, breathing in 

who talks 

  and who thinks out loud?

who whispers and

  where do they get the air?

speaking and screaming 

   can't take the rain away. they are

poor substitutes for a coat and

      it never helps to slip off my jacket

my nerves know the elements well, now

   and

the cold is no different than

the sun is no different than

the clouds that hide my face

  from the stars that wouldn't want

     to leave my head if they had a choice

             --i just know it--

                             

                    

another broken window

this started out as some sort of ode to the planet, or to the inhabitants of it-or something. i was hoping to depart, at least a bit, from the whole confessional cry-baby sort of shit that i usually write, but i am still unsure as to how well i accomplished that.

either way, here it is.

oh, i almost forgot..."Yay for Earth!" Earth Day is April 22; let's all keep that in our wasteful minds.

another broken window

what a pretty little
hamster wheel we've landed on
-so blue, so bright, so green-

it just might be the
cutest little marble
to split this either, yet-

it seems to me that pearls
are simply palettes
to be prettied-up and fancied to
reflect the verdure of our
perfect little bead;

how beautiful it is,
sparkling amidst the
violent starlight

how bound to its plight, it remains
just for being what and where it is-

so inspiring
and
pathetic, it spins

how tediously self-wrought
with imperfections

how wry she smiles
unaware of our resemblance-

owning her elliptical grin, she makes
over one thousand promises every second
that we break with every sound our chests make...

mother,
we have not yet learned to fly quietly