spring sophomore, valley of shadow

Heavy in my hand for a hundred wrong reasons,
my pen no longer understands.

I tell myself lies, self-indulgent at best, and fill
tear-stained volumes with pathos and prose
fit for no eyes or hopes, even my own;

I self-deceptively say ‘I’ to no eyes’ reply;
my penance — this silence — runs deep.

Do your doubtful glances know I cry Keats’ tears,
         poets’ heresies clouding my soul?
Judged by yourself, you will always find wanting.

Even you could see the words I seek, which,
when the world was new, fell at the fiery hand
of Eden’s jealous sentinel, whose double blade
dichotomized the world;

I am the world’s antithesis,
my silence pays the debt.

Wholeness, happiness — each is a world,
both drown in too much wisdom;
silence lingers with too much to understand.

Shotgun fire, almighty wind comes racing —
only scattered leaves stick in my hair:
Frankenstein, platonic footnotes,
         discourse theory, Microsoft,
                   time in bottles, penguin dust,
                             Lethean flood, Lothlórien,

one twentieth year lost mercy’s forfeit,
anamnestic moment waking from a dream of ships,
white sails frost the western sky
as I stand longing on the glassy shore.

synthesize
Is it pretentious, understanding?
Hubristic, wanting to?
Sophomoric, caring if I do?

synthesize
I want some happiness —
the artless, chartless pieces never fit the whole —
and did I mention life? I want that too.
(You never knew, did you?)

And synthesize poetic moments
when the words and world were new;
such foolish pride to think it mattered then,
          the reckless immortality,
                    the brilliant, whirling revelry,
                             the hopelessly bad poetry,

my pen and I both drunk on life,
life seething, teeming, writhing, life
in snowy white of ignorance — of innocence —
before the ache of wisdom brought
          the hangover of spring.