Posts for June 12, 2019

we’re all running
from something
and there are worlds
that are better
and worse
than ours

I’ve never felt
like an explorer
but a runner?
for sure

Dust and clean a white windowsill. 
Like and subsrcibe.
Acquire chenille stems.
It only takes five minutes.
Sponsored by nothing.
Buy my silence ,      ass
Don;t forget to like and subscribe.
If anyone fixes my typos I swear to god
But i don’t need to.
After I peacefully mend 12 little angels
in fuzzy dresses out of pipe cleaners
But not so mwell made
as to become unspiderlike
And let the flavors marry on the windowsill
Dump out the Real Footage Compilation Exposed
They will tell god for me
That nobody better switch the letters back
(reaction vid) (hit that subsribe button)
Or I will (Boyfriend tag) that body (reciepts in description) into the chasm

the clouds unhinge their wet wolf jaws and take the moon into their mouth.
brand-bright and haloed, she steadily burns through their belly.
how much life has sitting in a car seat chewed out of me?
and could the clouds spit up Selene’s cud?
and could that please just make it worth it?

one violin 
tumbles over
words

the descant
now the song

separate from her blood by fate
called to a day in court
witness for expiation
and reckoning
judgment before man

object or a life
standing in the hallway
like a penny on the floor
ready to cry
acting as if brave
holding her gramma’s hand

your enemy today
who was your mother
when you could love

you caused this.
suffering.
now you petition God
to have her heart.

stranger in a robe
speaks to suits and dresses
money and responsibility
compromise

it’s 10:35 now
your pique blums red. why does it
drag on so, like a bad movie
you think I’ll go to the bathroom
come back sane and better
like the visitation 
then address formalities of concern

steps of recovery
meant for honest souls
are an affliction
they burn the horizon
willingness stillborn in your craving.

we know that you won’t listen
til the steel door locks behind you
or you slide into the wall
a short file laid on marble
name tag on a blue toe

that’s how they said it was with Helen
not even a decent dress to wear
not a decent interval for grief, how trite
the family said in the rental limo

after they shifted her story to the ground
and what to do with the little girl then

absent of knowledge,
we cannot progress

when we were young
we longed to be grown

these days we miss childhood,
the days of ease and youth

despite this new fear,
we are more fully equipped

I tried to write a poem today. 
boy with hair of silk, I’d named it,
then deleted it all, calling 
the assembly of words, flash fiction. 

In the poem, his hair enveloped him like a caul.
The doctor almost dropped the child.
An attendant nurse in green scrubs yelled out
and knocked her hip against the metal tray
of soiled implements, scattering them to the floor.

It’s all gone, now. I never used to be scared
of writing, drunk
on my relative youth and the words I’d read. 
Today, I question every word, soberly.
Each piece can become a reason
not to finish. To be honest, my mind’s eye is
blind (when you say, picture a beach, I can’t ).
All I have is words, and my wobbly faith in words:

boy with hair of silk. flash fiction.
enveloped him like a caul. soiled implements, 
scattering. picture a beach.

the loneliest moment of the day
is when i wake up and you are not there —
next to me,
or when i get dressed and there is no one 
to tuck in my tag.
the loneliest moment of the day
is when i see your eyes & smile
in the little ones surrounding me
or maybe when they ask, 
“mommy, where is my daddy?”
the loneliest moment of the day
is when i dream a new dream
and you are not here to listen–
to give it life with me.
the loneliest moment of the day is when
I put myself to bed and you are not there to kiss me
or calm my anxiety–
or perhaps the loneliest moment of the day
is when i realize…
you
didn’t
choose
me.

We’re the lucky
ones because we
care. It makes the
days harder
sometimes
and full of grief for
animals and plants,
insects and trees,
bats and flowers
our kids will never
know, but fuller with
the rhythm of the
creek’s flow and the
birdsong drifting
across the sky –
the deep
appreciation
for what is left
because we see
clearly all that’s
been lost.