Golden Age

What do you call that Far East Asian ancient sailboat?

The one that’s always amber-orange and silhouetted, multiple masts

Sailing slowly but deliberately to anywhere but here

Help me because I can’t think

What, with all the noise in my head, contemplating your silence

Your confident cowardice

What do you call it

I want to hitch a ride to anywhere but here


No — what do you call it?

Ode To The Students & Those Who Want Them Well

We are silvering

We are not tinsel, flat
Nor tinny, shallow sound whose echoes won’t be known a year from now
We are, “Mr. Watson, come here. I want to see you.”

We are precious shine
Mined from the deep
Ribbons of pricelessness chiseled from someplace dark we’d entered into
Unknowingly, perhaps, but prepared nonetheless
Thence emerged, the metal of us hard-earned

We cannot be traded, bartered, or sold
We are made of this
We are made from this

Will they see us in next century’s sky?
Yes! And, ’til the 12th of Never

Canyons, ancient, will carry our collective voice

We are silvering, and are not second-place


Everywhere metal and replica
Against the backdrop
Of relative barrenness

But with an ancient eye
Before the disaster

Sweetgrass under wild feet
Bruised momentarily
Yet pleased with creation

Drip, drip, drip
I see
Lichen hanging fervently


Curiosity is for others I knew
Curious I opened you
Crossed-out were all the meanings
Rewritten in red were the right ones you wrote
Green arrows referencing citatations to other languages
Not spoken before 
Pronouncing words to the best of my abilities
Curious I laid you down