88 (after They Might Be Giants)

February 5, 2021 jdoublepdonnie darko, frank, poem, poetry, Roberta sparrow, song, they might be giants, writingLeave a comment

She’ll never know what she’ll find
When she opens up her letter box tomorrow
‘Cause a big bunny tells me everything I want to know
Except about Grandma Death, Roberta Sparrow
And I’ll never never know
All the things I never never never want to know
Even though I’m Donnie Darko

Since I can see the effervescent chest tubes showing paths though time
I can know the future but still forgot I was gonna shoot my spirit guide
Smack dead in the middle of his eye
I should’ve have talked with you about The Philosophy of Time, shouldn’t I?
Would’ve that worked out fine?

Living Receiver is my new job it’s crazy so there’s no time for sorrow
In my hoodie find a vortex in the sky to die smiling yesterday’s tomorrow

Donnie Darko turns 20 this year…and They Might Be Giants is timeless.

Haiku for an Enlightened New Year

December 31, 2020December 31, 2020 jdoublephaiku, meditation, poem, poetry, urinary bliss, writing3 Comments

I meditated

So hard I peed in my pants

Warm, wet, samadhi

On the pleasures of being lied to

December 1, 2020 jdoublepdeath cult, poem, poetry, something is wrong, writing5 Comments

dreams of cinemas and churches and
where the people once were – empty
now we fill the spaces between spaces
countless coughs in crammed corridors
attentions misdirected by magic words
earth salted, unsowable
incongruous truths, convenience be damned
give me liberty or give us death
silver screens absent of light motions, horror worship

a patriot once whispered
upon her deathbed
to anyone listening,
still trying to understand
the things patriots say,
“you must know that
the child of freedom
is responsibility.
you must know that
freedom is a razor.”

Walking Through the Woods Whistling, Wondering

November 30, 2020 jdoublepdeath poem, poem, poetry, writingLeave a comment

Under cover of failed flesh
Slowly creeps the march of Death.
Recalling how life fair flows,
Slows not the fall of Shadow…

34 Words for Snow

November 27, 2020 jdoublepburied alived, poem, poetry, snow, writingLeave a comment

Snowfall at night, music.
Comes the bone house to rest.
Now, the pale house will dream
Of the world it knew best.

Doubts, through life must we bear
As strong men come or go.
Snowfall, broken-hearted,
Buries blustering foes.

Cures for Pain

November 25, 2020 jdoublepearthlike, poem, poetry, writingLeave a comment

Once numb. Limbs frozen, crying to remember heat,
Lashed by the weight of night-plagued flesh.

Choking, room empty of divine, immortal breaths.
Heavy sighs returned while shivering unto death.

Hear now mother’s quivering voice after panged birth.

Watch her lead the children through each forest wild
And tell stories of every bird to fly under every sun.

Just Right

November 24, 2020 jdoubleppoem, poetry, writingLeave a comment

Where have you gone, my hopeful heart,
Exiled by new doom, soon depart?

You used to burn when pushing blood
Saw no things worthless in the mud.

Escaped the liquid from its box,
Coagulate thief, Goldilocks.

Night Breaths

November 23, 2020 jdoublepnighttime righttime, poem, poetry, writingLeave a comment

We watched the sky shine dark and apologize
Lightning first, unwelcome stars we will know
Then onto other nights this moon will go
While I spare my sight future, dim-lit sighs.

Utnapishnim, whom the gods made immortal

October 2, 2020October 2, 2020 jdoublepfuture, past, poem, poetry, present, writingLeave a comment

Dream, always in dream, the past

The past returns, for me to change

And shape into a new future

At eight years old, I didn’t stick up

For dirty Benji Brown

At night, my eyes go wild

And I help him fight the fifth graders

He asks if we can be friends

At night, afloat, I smile and tell him thanks for asking

At sixteen years old, I wanted it so bad

So often and with everyone

At night, my lids tremble

And I take it slow and with curiosity

I make it like a sacred circle of trees

At night, under covers, with the bedroom windows open, it’s holy

At twenty-four years old, I thought I knew death

Was sure it had something to do with ego

At night, my temp drops

And I only hope to wake up in balance

And still breathing

At night, surrounded by pillows, I imagine life free of measurement and rulers

Dream, always in dream, the past

The past awaits, to shape me

Into these unknown, bifurcated futures

Edward Vidaurre

September 26, 2020 jdoublepAztlan libre press, Edward Vidaurre, poem, poetry, writing2 Comments

From Pandemia & Other Poems, 2020, Aztlan Libre Press. https://aztlanlibrepress.com/pandemia-by-edward-vidaurre/

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