Poetry of Jonny Alexander Nay

Whom is inside, your metal body hide.  Tendon, become, not red, but black,  presume.  That body, bind, and wide  Can only move so fast.  To hide.  I have two wings.  one is black, the other red.  For there is something stuck inside my head.  That hands so large, couldn't not befall.  That snakes inside my body,  or darkness,  or thousands guns and knives.  I swear.  Could not deprive.  The earth is small, and man is weak.  and the mountains will break and crumble.  and what becomes of their hates?  What is it, that moves you inside?  What is it, that you think is alive.  What body, do you really know.  The strain and stretch, and punishment. 

I remember sitting up on the hill, A cool breeze, wet as the lake below, Gently caresses the sage and yellow around me. My father stands, below, I cautiously watch them. Talking, and Pointing around the valley. Fathers Camping Day* They saw me standing up there. Lol Moving in between sage brush, Placing a small foot on white and black speckled stones. One father was a hunter, Whom collected deer skulls. The valley moaned for me. They listened. Not so much to the test, Of their own heart, or breath. But to the movement of my blood. My confusion… “Come on, we’re going now!” They wave me with some fury, Which is really soft, I swear. As the down of little ducks. Whom are following mother. Whom are collecting deer skulls. As a test, to their own hearts. My confusion.

Live!  As I did live!  and give,  a whole for me.  Waves of gold, and green  the eye that sees. Mother? Does the river run to the sea?  if it first does not come  to be? 

I am sorry. My legs are large now, and my back is sore. My mouth has grown, and is quiet, by a bell which tolls. I am breath, but I am drowning For you are not here. so I am sad. You see the mountains are large, and I am a still. I see you standing there, torn by a battle against you. And you lie, and are shaken. Did you ever care? Did, I ever give you enough time? Will I ever get to kiss you on the forehead. Or will you withdraw into nothing. For men in relationship to patriarchy, I don’t believe in failures. Only betrayal. Largely of the self. If there is a failure, it is a societal one: of institutions, and culture, and the reject of a way of categorizing, and comparing human beings to the murder. Most men are raised to be killers in this society, the loss of life that haunts men, and chaos and turmoil *socioemotionally that emerges, when they are forced into these rigid roles, is terrifying, degrading, and dehumanizing. All men, are resentful and de

Is it really betrayal, when the spirit is to young to tell. That in this shining life, we await a hell.  Tell me then, by whose word, led you astray? by whose feet, you laid bare. and felt nothing, no hand, no care? --- If you had to tell your sweet, she would die. To live and love, and cry... Would you not lie? --- Once I was poised, to stand among men, to never bend. To watch the tides, of time, descend. Into me, in my being and send. A echo back, along no end.

Up from the sky, behind the dark and blue mountain. Ethereal, Love. On wings, and winds: myself.

I am her, my movement in eyes. In the way, I reach, but cannot grasp the sky. I am her: and how it hurts to know this. I may stand, but how to stand together: when they have taken home? in this, even disappointment, dies. --- A miracle. A fondest love is born. up from the smokin ashes,  and blood, and trumpet sound,  a black procession, unmourned.  and shirts and dresses, torn.  across a raging ocean: in me. What could we say of love? --- That even from the depths of sorrow. A dove.

That horrible stairway,  falling down, in  charade of darkness.  align in my crystalline stream,  reading the marking on the walls of dream.  Echo: outwards saying,  "How long until, break my bonds, and walls,  to be!"  I can hardly stomach their taste anymore,  and mine, and  that fine line, between, my soul,  and what is too far away to see.  -- But. 

Who am I? --- An open field, of flowing grain. Waiting to be pulled, up from the earth, to be waved by the moon. So why maintain, against the dark? You are the hope. so be in time, in this divine. that rocks the earth, and moon. Enthralled, you and me. Brother and Sister, Wild and Free. We touch, and hold, for in warmth is told, Play of Body, and bliss, a bond of old.

Solitude of myself, between two shores. and the Scottish Moors. Step by Step, on this sacred ground. I am found.

What it means to be an america? --- Is to simply, "believe" in future: with a religious fervor, and all of your bones: to leave your family in a tomb of memory, then go out on your own. To be american: is to give, everything you have, to the present, and loss it all again, in a rush, a traffic. a whirlwind, of words, and a god awful noise, and that goes on-and-on, and never ends. To be an american is to, lose yourself, except for one small voice: "Why me!" To be an american, is to have your color, knocked off you. Treaded upon. To be american is to be dispossessed: In one way, or another.

Beauty What cannot be named, Will go the same, Down the path, of all-Forgotten. So in who’s, black hair, I writhe, and dare. This I have not forgotten: You are not, And simply not, Although it’s taken time, time, and tears: mine. -Intimacy- I can look into jewel-y eyes, daring not to claim. I can be delicate, I can be calm. I can admire, Without a need, ha, to tame. And you will love, And do the same. -With your Art- I see your fire -- I am a cave, And cannot be burned: But I will reflect your name! For eyes are Keen, To show the heart, Though a shield, of hatred, Drawn and raised. I am stream, So, I move, with your art. -I would like to dedicate these songs, to Lisa, whom showed me the mad strength, of this heart. And courage, to be. - Lisa, you’re spirit is a clear river, Your soul is a dark forest, Your sexuality is a fire, that burns me, Cauterizes my wounds, Your sm

What is it that I can give you? When all lays open, and dares to be. All but by--- This move inside. that is, as it was Before, but ages ago. Coming together.

A bird, a hawk That soars above.  A predator.  Bound to render judgment. But careful.  Without fury, It pulls it's wing against the wind. And gently strikes. The earth. The quivering life, dies under the sun, Nothing is taken for granted. Death, which always will come, is respected.

Humanity in chains --- contemplate these words --- brother and sister, what is it we bare? our bond, forged in that place, where the heart could not care.

In all the hills, they dwell and be, But long to see them free. For wanders off the plaque and stone, Bare no stories, but in the tome. Why, when the heart did sing for thee, You craved for fear: of love and me. For the setting of the sun and arch, Brings on wings, the song, with robin’s-dart To only twist and bind, in the cage of mind. conceiving that horrible art.

How fair and how sweet you would be, as the church bells toll, in my chest you are, A bright new day, clearly rung, Not as the grave lays wasted, and a song unsung. The taste of you has not faded, From my tongue. So how many hours, must I wait for thee, A hundred years, too long? It could hardly be.

The saddest, facts, Cannot give way. They sit in place, As stones. Lay amongst my way. And my dear love, I surmise, that we are here: To move them from the fray. For inside them all: A light. that shines as day.

I think also, remember: the rain falling, Out there, in the dark and desolation, of america. A warmth, that is the kitchen oven. in the glow of candlelight my life’s heart, flickers against it. I felt pent up. It felt like there was nowhere to go, We were lost. I have to get out! I remember going out, stalking in the blue evening grass, Looking in at another's, little flame. Their shining ornaments. Is there a warmth in their home? Are you in love neighbor? Have you found it… The dark night is a beautiful *sigh* Catching me out late again. Coming home? Must I go? You are calling me wind, a strange, inevitably, as if i’d found spirit, my soul, up in the trees. And it had taken me up there, And i’ve lived among it for an hour or two. What was there before this? For my love, I head down the valley into the dark, where the clouds roll, bringing their desolation. Bringing the storm. We are not stronger than nature. We are all born in the woods, why do we fight? We all are in love, to sl

I want to crawl away, underneath a dark table. Past, and underneath, the dead-grey light, of the linen window-seal. Take a blind eye to you: Who did not want me! I will not see the sun rise today: Or bloom for you any longer.

Fear is that sap upon the noble heart. A green snake, monstrous, Coiling and uncoiling, Around my little white arm: Why did I ever hold you to play! Daring in awe, frozen in my foil. Surrendered, waiting for the bite. No, too much this natural delight. Were their banners, flags that fly, Flowers thrown from prostrate cries? No. Just a gentle sigh and a risky step, into curiosity. circling up, friction on the valley, and rivulets of my arm, in the shade of Grandma's purple and green branches. The scent of lilac in the air, witness eyes, that seem to say, "hello."

Weakness, is not a flaw,  Nor is it less than I.  A foreigner, threat. Within you, Hear the hearts cry  "I am weak, brother..."  Would you not come and rest your head upon my knee, So that I can give all of my strength, to thee?

I went out and walked alone, over, the cracked white floor, of the Salt Flats. I lite a fire in the desert, and it burnt a hole in me: that was then taken up by the night-sky. To set myself free from the thought, that they would never know. But now, the stars, that are now inside of me, seem to say: But perhaps they did.

In moments of pain, retire, to return again. Go into, a cool dark room, or dash, out into the sun and bloom

Pleasure sets us free. Delight dedicates us. Fatigue needs you. A labor of love, Which is a promise - my only does not need repair.

You’re value is not determinate upon me And nor mine to you. But I long so deeply, To give you my love by setting you free. So I ask: where does this leave me?

Kept here, stuck like a stiff wooden post. The answer laying at my feet, Defeated man, inglorious, Injury born from love. Step on the stones of redemption, Whose path circles into a foggy, foramen, Pain in the body. Whose destination makes: space in solitude. Breath of winter air, And cool rain. Spring blooms within. I am a valley of red tulips. I am a young boy, his wonderment: Whose hill, and glory, and new day, Is breaking over.