1. |
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My eyes are roman candles exploding kaleidoscopic sunsets.
My lips are black holes into blank canvases.
My ears are lotus flowers open to everything.
My tongue is a free-falling firefly lighting up the dark of my mouth.
My nose is a deactivated pipe bomb.
My cheeks are balloons stretched over a cannon.
My throat is a coin slot.
My neck is a flowering branch growing into smog.
My arms are parallel test tubes full of magma.
My chest is the Pacific Ocean.
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2. |
wildflowers
04:26
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The lake has frozen over again. Snow falls silently, covering the pine trees on all sides of the water. The geese have all flown south, leaving me alone to face the cold wind blowing my hair across my face.
And if I scream my name across the lake, would it just echo back unheard? These footprints are fast-disappearing, covered by fresh snow.
Hoping for spring, it’s so far out of reach. This feeling grows in my head.
I gather a handful of snow into a ball, throw it into the trees. I watch its arc as it falls to the forest floor, joining the vast expanse of flakes accumulated on the ground.
And if I scream my name across the lake, would it just echo back unheard? These footprints are fast-disappearing, covered by fresh snow.
I’m waiting for the months when wildflowers grow from my head...
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3. |
rilke
04:56
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“You are so young, you have not even begun, and I would like to beg you, as well as I can, to have patience with everything that is unsolved in your heart and to cherish the questions themselves, like closed rooms and like books written in a very strange tongue.” **
So with this in mind I look to the new year with hopeful eyes.
I’m gonna make it out of this mess alive.
//have patience//
I’m gonna make it out of this mess alive
//cherish the questions//
I’m gonna make it out of this mess alive.
//like closed rooms//
I’m gonna make it out of this mess alive
//like books written in a strange tongue//
Why shouldn’t this one be my year?
**FROM Rainer Maria Rilke’s 4th LETTER TO A YOUNG POET
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4. |
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The moon greens the entire night,
afternoon abandoning its coppery wave,
evaporating wet grass oceans
into a fine, acidic mist.
The avian wind picks clean the last leaves,
passing over the frosty knowledge of our eyes
and leaving only an indistinguishable burning, failing bliss
lush with the spectacular absence of flowers.
A tree knows how to feel busy,
awaiting the ridiculous chestnut murmur of
the ellipsis in the air like grotesque music
floating half-forgotten in wasted daylight.
The silence of feeble smiles
floods these sun-bleached barriers!
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5. |
blue song
06:25
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i wasn't made for this world
my hands like rose petals
too delicate to work with
my thoughts like glass
fragile, always in jeopardy
my lungs meant to filter some substance other than air
my teeth meant to gnash freely
my feet meant to walk on the surface of the sky
i wasn't made for this world
a place lacking in love
this desert of solitude
my stomach craves more than air
my lips crave more than their lonely self-kiss at rest
my ears crave more than dissonant traffic
i wasn't made for this world
my eyes like night-vision goggles
always searching for beauty
in the dark
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Zavis Kalandra Athens, Ohio
Bobby // Guitar
Cody // Drums
Jamie // Vocals
Mitch // Bass
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