Dirty Truths
Truths are not written on the walls
but rather,
on steam covered shower doors,
only to be washed away
with the guilt
of those who come after.
Truths are not written on the walls
but rather,
on steam covered shower doors,
only to be washed away
with the guilt
of those who come after.
How can you be uninspired? Someone asks me
With the warmth of a sunny day,
But a cool breeze on your cheek
A bird’s song, the colors of a flower,
A reflection in water of the trees above
How can you be uninspired? Another questions
With shoes on your feet
A clean shirt on your back
A roof over your head
Friends, family,
Unconditional love
How can you be uninspired? I ask myself now
When there is pain in the world
Conflict
Hate
Lifetimes of suffering
How can you be uninspired? It nags me
You can read, write
See, touch, listen
Think
How can you be uninspired? Hide the question away
But sometimes
I still feel
uninspired
What a pity. What a shame.
But is it the truth?
Am I uninspired?
Or just out of practice?
Lazy perhaps.
Maybe I am broken.
Or worst of all…
our minds fit
but not our hearts
our hearts fit
but not our desires
our desires fit
but not our hours
this Devil’s Triangle
swallows me whole
The fourth month that I am on Clomiphene, you suggest
we grow vegetables, with this funny look, like I only hear
half of what you want to say. You have given that look
so many times in the past four months.
Projects emerge out out of the quiet spaces between us
like evening primrose, waiting to be seen. You ask,
this time, to raise vegetables because we buy too many
tomatoes, and because, I think, you want to keep me busy.
We we choose a Sunday, because Sundays are the hardest
for some reason. Something about tradition and ritual
makes us want to have someone to teach, to feel
like our stories aren’t our own anymore, like ingredients
for a meal only we can cook. These plants, you say,
will be the first course. Your hands in the dirt, sun
in your face, I see the weary man inside, a ragged
tree after a storm, and I wonder what I must look like.
On a Sunday, in June, we plant tomatoes. We write,
“Sweet Banana Peppers” on popsicle sticks and sink
them into the soil. We water zucchini, pluck mint,
let it sit on our tongues. And once we are good
and dirty, tired, and sunburnt, we rest. We survey
the things we have made with our four hands. We let
the backyard settle into summer dusk, and I know
you are trying to teach me that I can make things grow.
Leaving you at Canter’s Cave
was excruciating.
Your smile tight, eyes nervous-
wanting us to quickly go.
I have poured over Facebook,
caught a glimpse of your knees.
Is that you doing a canonball?
A preview as you grow away.
The cold metal slowly heats
with every pass of energy
relayed in such a way it becomes knowledge
knowlege we don’t know,
but knowledge we can see
what we see we can experience
experience creates emotions
these emotions have come from metal
and electricity
it was photo-worthy, at the height
of the craze. all shades k–a huddled
around grey pillar—charging station
with wiggling cords plugged in. faces
illuminated by glow of screens streaming
ar with gyms, eggs, a database, balls
berries gained at parks, landmarks
creatures you could capture, train
monsters that fit inside your pocket
