This is a reading of a poem that I wrote probably earlier, sometime around 4 am. I had been outside, thinking about my back yard and the lights that light parts of it up. More on this in my Me, Right Now video.

Here is the complete poem for you to read:

my closed fists are empty cameras
i hold nothing, like forgetting how to learn,
unless i fill my hands with pens

and if my hands hold pens, the cameras
are loaded guns, ready, hot to shoot

at night the lights are artificial,
the shadows are real, the trees
are real, my back yard is real,
the light is fake, but everything it
produces is real.

it is only when i am able to write,
am i able to capture, hold on to something,
as if catching a wild animal, some idea,
then letting it go, it's traces recorded here
on this sheet.

the sun is the largest fire we shall ever meet.
an ember scooted too close to a mountain of leaves.
a living body tearing through everything, barely
touching us, an arm just long enough
to squeeze our necks.

even in darkness the sun is there,
the moon forwarding a message
of hope for the day, someone elses
daylight reflected in a fraction, a glow
exposing the bitter face carved from
old age, scars define experience
of the underappreciated, those responsible
for the flowing of water, the wind, the fish
the old man in the sea, drowning while he dreams.