generations

My older brother was born in the early 80’s like the guy who invented Facebook. The tail end of the grunge era, we’ll call this Generation Y.

I was born in the later part of the mid eighties. My generation gave Facebook our stamp of approval – we dictated how to use the internet; we are responsible for the evolution of cellular phones. So we’re Generation Z.

My little brother was born in 1990. He probably doesn’t even remember a time without the internet or cell phones. His generation invented texting while driving and cyber bullying and all-caps abbreviations of the English language.

At a loss for letters, how about we call him Generation Question Mark.

Gaia

In the wintertime she sleeps with Toss and Turn,
stirred by nightmares as Cold
     chips away at her face
She squints against the white static
     of crystalline neurosis,
her tears frozen and snatched by Wind
     before reaching the ground.

Reawakened, reinvigorated, revived
     she is in spring
Gasping warm breath to weep in the ecstasy
     of fertility
Her cheeks bloom robust hues as blood
     melts to flow free
Virility and Vigor -- her cobalt eyes widen
     to illuminate her face.

She is lazy with orgasm when summer arrives
her back arched and legs strewn
     across emerald bed sheets
Listless and content with the heat
     of a boiling son
she rolls away.

But autumn is the most beautiful death
     I ever did see --
She screams cold and loud, stripped naked
     in the inferno,
her martyr’s arms ablaze in Citrine, Coquelicot,
     and Magenta;
Then she collapses into infinite slumber
     with a crimson gasp.

Persephone Touches Down

There once was a myth
that was weaved beneath the rainbow
She thought it was a hero
she had seen standing there

But storm clouds overruled
that sweet, delicious sunset
And he was gone, cross the Atlas
on magic wings with wake of thin air

And she boiled and bubbled
beneath her skin
Because the world he’d abandoned
was far too heavy to bear

Until she met the Knight
that was the rainbow --
And the lands wept
as Mother Nature restored her fair.

walk like you mean it

walk like you mean it.
legs first, use your core to bring the rest along,
your arms the counterbalance hinged upon
two level and regally pinned back shoulders.
slink.
you are a lioness on the prowl.
commandeer the operation.
feel your spine arch like a bow
prepared to shoot the arrow that is your chin
aimed toward the sun.
pull your abdominal muscles so taut
they vibrate in the ecstasy of purposeful motion
like the strings of a viola.
roll your hips in their sockets with each stride,
your thighs burning in anticipation
of getting somewhere.
Go.
your knees are well-oiled,
self assuredly thrusting forth.
let your ankles leverage
the power-stroke of your step,
each toe lifting off the ground in turn.
Feel your breath catch in your throat
because you are walking too fast.
too fast is for the passionate.
You are passionate.
You do not walk,
you chase.