Tho I carry a compass,
Spindle gesturing in vain,
Unless I know where I am
North is just a name.
Since oceans may live
Between me and where I am,
I guess at where I’m going
Based on where I’ve been.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Out of the Rolling Ocean the Crowd”)
The hapless savant paints,
Not for postmortem praise,
But for redemption by effigy
In that one hour to madness.
Behold, the masterpiece.
Reckless strokes blistering,
Scabs across a defiant dream,
Rendered through a pinhole.
Is it the tortured backstory,
Woven at the auction house,
Or the travailing phantom
That hums lovely to your ledger?
-T. Weeks
(A response to “One Hour to Madness and Joy”)
Ridges of solid fuel
In concentric canyons,
Maximizing the surface.
Catalysts and inhibitors
Saddling the reaction,
A spectacular calamity.
Blossoming exotherm
Hurling spent mass,
Sidereal expatriate.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Spontaneous Me”)
Wondering youth
Gather curiosities,
Guided on their journey
By turbulent constellations.
Seeing pockets overflowed,
I, nomad and stowaway,
Search tics and bearings
For their coda unknown.
-T. Weeks
(Inspired by “A Woman Waits for Me”)
Here lies a body, mine.
Chaotic sinewy tapestry,
A metropolis of industry
Reaping oxygen precious.
Each organ broadcasting,
Seeking efficient transport,
Delivering oxygen precious
To its brother, encephalon.
Static, noise, and signal,
Syncopating in nervous
Loops of organic wire,
The symphony of experience.
There is no enemy here,
No rage, peace, or design,
A vascular node to vivisect,
Me, diorama of the cosmos.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “I Sing the Body Electric”)
I’ll tell you what’s not going to be in this love poem.
There won’t be any fire or dancing or swimming
Or veins or heart beats or flutters or everythings
Or eternities or infinities or alls or being losts
Or crazinesses or kisses or embraces or oceans
Or holding anythings or flashes or best friends
Or clouds or stars or moons or any types of plants
Or dolphins (because they’re actually kind of rapy)
And definitely no rhyming or meter or syllable counts.
The only thing in this love poem is going to be love.
It’s going to be so damn perfect that as you slowly read
You’ll just be like, “I feel love right now. He nailed it.”
Of course it’ll have to get bookmarked or highlighted
Or repinned or reposted or DM’d or shared like crazy
And that viral sharing will be a metaphor for our love,
Inspiring envious smiles and eye-rolls from our friends.
Then, long after its fallen off every news feed you’ll find
This poem again and smile because I still love you.
-T. Weeks
(Has nothing to do with “From Pent-Up Aching Rivers”)
Dear Mom and Dad,
Don’t freak out, but I met someone.
It feels like we were made for each other.
We have already learned so much together,
And now I crave more sweet consciousness.
It’s like that weird dream where you’re naked,
Intent on finding a simple forgotten something.
Maybe you don’t have that one.
Don’t worry we’re not naked… anymore 😉
By the way, no one’s put this stuff in my head.
I’m going to do this regardless of company,
For I need not a quorum to define the course.
Anyways, we’re leaving to find ourselves.
Eve
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Book IV. Children of Adam”)
Visiting memories from decades past,
I find callow corpses, each a likeness of another,
Each one fertilizer for the man I’ve become,
Each one laid to rest with blossoms of fresh vision.
I don’t bother wishing to live 1000 years,
For in my life-immense a stranger I’m creating.
-T. Weeks
@life_immense
(A response to “BOOK III Song of Myself”)
I seek splendid imperfection,
To champion me, the novice.
Thou poet that rambles,
Thou hero that cowers,
Thou genius that puzzles,
Praise be to your cracks,
Handholds in the precipice.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK II
Starting from Paumanok”)
I am an addict.
I guess that’s the first step.
Every night is the same.
The inspired sight of morning,
Evanescing against the invitation
To glut on pixeled escape.
Immaterial hours withdrawn,
exhausting a blind account,
Yielding a shiftless, fallow legacy.
Will I die a bankrupt bystander,
A receptacle of advertisements?
No!
I rage against that technicolor light!
Collecting not finales watched
But investing in finales I write.
T. Weeks
(Inspired by “Thou Reader”)
Life Immense 