the benefit of
keeping your mouth shut: your lips,
an unwrapped present
(Who can truly justify)Who can truly justify(Who can truly justify) by AMWeitz
Their right to live
Their right to die?
Who could prove on either side
When none here know
The fall or rise,
When darkness comes with penny eyes
To cut our vision
Down to size,
Stealing sound and strength and sight
In that cold, hard,
Who can truly testify?
Who has seen
With their own eyes
The throne of light on which He lies
And bids us welcome
From on high?
Who has truly touched the sky?
And who could preach
And confidence in lofty claims
A going then
“No one!” cries the learned man,
A slave to no
“Despite what every man may wish,
Our final sleep’s
Not like the fish,
“No evidence convinces me.
Can I believe,
For science wins my heart alone,
But lest you think
I’m made of stone:
“There is great power in faith indeed,
For man is fragile
And in need
Of comfort like a little babe
(Our want for Mother
Ode to Aching FeetFor the ground.Ode to Aching Feet by AMWeitz
For soil and asphalt and grass,
For wood on water,
Rubber on Earth.
For clouds as they were meant to be:
Beautiful for being unreachable,
Beautiful even when terribly dark,
Beautiful when absent altogether.
For sweat and strain,
For wind through hair,
For rain in eyes,
For sun on backs,
For frozen fingers and
Sweaty brows too.
For night time, for darkness
And the billion prosthetic suns
We have erected to fight the unknown,
To fill the void.
For sights beyond words,
For sights not worth words,
For the the beauty in everything...
For beauty that cannot last.
For the way the moon shone down
On the river that night,
How we sat together and said
Not a word, while the water sent
Speckles of light to dance
Across our captive eyes.
Through which time spent transforms
From toll into treasure:
The hours weave together
Like a massive tapestry of sun and moon,
Of gold and green and blue,
Of things that cannot be given
But must be let g
Can anyone hear me?Ring around the roses (gasoline)Can anyone hear me? by AMWeitz
Journal full of proses
Flick my cigarette, now
Any given Monday
Tuesday Wendnesday Thursday
Rocking chair, praying now
Watching our star climb
Eyes are burning slowly
Day grinds to a halt, now
One last exhale:
Night, be swift.
Take me away from here
GalaxiaAnd her name was Galaxia:Galaxia by sandracaskey
Within the threads of her hair,
She held the galaxies unaware.
They produced their light at the break of night
When galactic souls were resting and not one caught its sight.
So precious and small like the star in her eye,
Wisping away amongst the leaves in the night sky.
Protected by the alignment of a constellation,
She was blessed with a powerful touch of inspiration.
Strange and unfamiliar with what the planets brought her.
Curiosity struck her like a whip of lightning—yet, another.
So fragile and alone, she's most unique in all the solar system;
Kept captive by the nonbelievers, trapped and praying for freedom:
“Wish, wish, wish me away
To a place that I could never stray;
Lay me away with the galaxies I pray.
Rest me aside the stars and I’ll stay.
Tell me the stories when the planets align.
Promise me they will always be mine.
Take me on an adventure, where I can see nebulas,
Where I can see the true beauty of supernovas.”
La ventanai.La ventana by vespera
In my dream Grandpa My stands in the veranda
across from my apartment—as always, in the shade,
and his linen shirt shows no perspiration from the heat.
I believe we are in dry Madrid where I have not been
for years. He has been dead twice as long, yet here he is:
no death mask and his smile calm. Grandpa! I call.
From my window our eyes meet. Grandpa! It's me!
He remains smiling, but won't return my wave.
In the next dream Grandma Suzy comes to visit,
maneuvers herself through the door of my Piso.
Grandma, I say, hurry! Grandpa's here.
She gives a girlish laugh and comes to my window.
She is seventeen, as she was in Chicago, celebrating VJ
and sipping her first beer. She has no eyes for me.
Grandma, I whisper, why won't he say anything?
He's shy, she whispers back; he's so tall, isn't he?
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub.i.to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub. by littleblueraccoon
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub:
in the magazine I own that published your story,
they blurred out the crime scene photographs,
erasing your face and
the full curves of your breasts.
some part of me wonders
if you would have wanted this,
or if you would have liked for
the public to see you in your final moments,
half-soaked in grey-looking water,
your hair in strings, glued to the porcelain,
eyes closed and mouth gaping,
no breath stirring, no bubbles rising.
sometimes when I look
into the depths of my bathroom sink,
I hear your voice
(or what I imagine it to be--
after all, we never met).
you sit on the edge of the toilet seat,
and chat to me about the weather.
I would give anything to hear your real, living voice,
to ask you what you were thinking
as you lowered yourself
into the tub, queen of the tendrils of steam,
and let your lungs deflate like old birthday balloons.
on the news they say that your autopsy
revealed three quarters
of a bottle o