Night Run Syntax

I went to the night
and I wanted to run
further and further
into the star fields above.
Into the past.
Past my own people
and their adoration of
gender and tyrants,
drunk on power,
desperate without it.

For
the people here are slaves
to desperation.

Insignificant in space,
yet precious in form.

How
can we live content
as dust?

How
can we live
and then take
our form again,
in some manner,
some way?

Further and further
into the star fields above,

I lust.
I pray.
I send signals their way.

Poetry from tewkMehrtin.com

Solaris Hymn 40

This mortal earth
aside
the millionaire denies it,
the egotist claims her
and in missing the light,
shadows,
and calculus
of Solaris,
the revelation of suffering
avoids them.

So they only pass,
leaving unloved children
to repeat their wrath
and continue
the cycles of mortals.

O hold up you high
Piraeus’ glass at midday
and know
the wealth of nothingness.

Socrates is there
with wild hair
on the bed made by slaves
still dreaming.

Sappho is dead, just dead.
Her corpse wrapped in
loins.

Poetry from tewkMehrtin.com

Morality And Mortality

I’m wrong.

I’m full of mortality.

Portions of me
were an orange from Valencia.

Portions of me
spoke to my classmates
in an auditorium in college.

Portions of me
walked through the Agora
at midday
with pieces of billion year old
dust all around.

I’m wrong.

I’m full of mortality.

You turn your eyes away from
these words.

You’re wrong too.

The evening sky burns pink and
orange.

: : Poetry from tewkMehrtin

The Inequalities Of Women

She lived
while other women
in her church
died,
got breast cancer,
had heart attacks,
grew old.
Her arms stayed thin
on the bone
while others got fat
and flabby,
marbled with vericose veins
and their breath grew
stale and sour.
She looked at the sad
excuse of aging men
around her,
loved her husband
nonetheless.
She knows this is what
our way of life has
to offer,
so she lived
between the trips to
the nursing home
to visit friends
and the turning of the
Bible pages.

M.I.N.E.

We never walk at sundown.

We could live better on this planet.

You hold your dark eyes
and I hold mine too.

If everyone stays inside their house
and guards their possessions
then we’ll call the planet Earth.

You will have a forehead made of stone.
I will remember the scent of stone.

A solar star burns
and
mortals go capturing its light,

but we could live better on this planet

so I guess
you will have your possessions
and I will have mine.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
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Soda And Derelict

The civil clerk is a good person
and usually is anyways
good
left up to others
to take care of tasks
would nothing become
some other one’s job is for Sunday
or some day of learning
does until done
what is needed on a morning
all parents die


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
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Saidness

You move on me, not like a mirror,
but like daylight.

A dying man’s life was really a day,
one long day of life:
watch the sky open, watch the sky close.
This cloudscape belongs above Montana.

You step in me, not like mud,
but like river:
unlike the cat chase of Mohenjo-Daro,
unlike the Martian meteorites.

The turquoise from the jewelry-makers of God
I take from your eyes
and hold onto the colors of day.
There: life is frozen.

O Antarctica, only you have beaten time,
or so
the foreign-exchange students
from the mermaid-lands
have told me.

I love you, football, tender, tender.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
from:
lovers of the century thumbnail image
Lovers Of The Century (poetry book)

Appointment With Directors

Chase the hills in Mexico,

followed the tones of your skin into shadows,

by the morning the sun was there

all eyes were open
and the beaches bartered eternity,

I reached for a tortilla.

The moss and mold hid, then fell apart
underneath
the eyes of the onward looking directors of Universe.

Afternoon cascaded down your legs
dribble dribble
and my head feels so good,
I smell the old plants,

let me eat the oranges in a still room,
god damnit, I am like an old man.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
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Nothing More Can Go Wrong, Chicken Tenders

In the backyard is a plow.
No one knows quite what to do with it.
It sits with its wood rotting
and its iron rusted
as a sculptural piece in a flowerbed.
There’s also a grave for a hamster named Dinky,
a stone, here by the plow,
painted with neon green and pink fingerpaint.
The stars are silent.
My grandmother would not agree with the situation.
She would not have belief or comprehension of it.
Her wrists would bleed and her feet would hurt.
She would have misunderstanding,
befuddlement and fear.
She would not discuss.
She would be worried to be in this place.
Her eyes would twitch and her brow would crinkle.
It’d be a look your gut would decipher.
I’m pretty damn scared right now to look at the plow.
I can’t look up.
I can’t look at the garden or the birdbath.
I know the oak trees stand there brooding over me,
thinking
“What the fuck are you people doing?”

I don’t know who is wrong.
If anyone can even be wrong anymore?
If we can even do this or that?
I think genetics are dead or
they are living.

I don’t think we can.

I am a box.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
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A Tempori

Ten years become twenty.
Twenty years become thirty.
Thirty years become fifty.
Fifty becomes one hundred.
One hundred becomes three hundred.
Three hundred becomes a thousand.

The bones of humans are salt and fade
and the beach is as new as the sky.

The thing that I purchased was bone.

un-hundred is doing best the duty

so is un-thousand, for you, your ego accept

we
left
purchasing
the
birds
feed
on
far
understandings


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
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