to kill a bug
i gut
a bug
with nothing
but a touch
to my cheek
-bone
There’s an awful lot
of having to accept
‘things I cannot change’ and it comes
in fits & starts. Sometimes, with utter grace –
serene-swan aplomb –
others? well…. not smiling through tears so much
as shaking through fears, flailing for floats and
finding only anchors. Words
are islands, are icebergs
(which often overturn,
morass of emotions exposed)
are mirages, sea-mist evaporating
tricks
of light reflecting.
Their outright dissembling sparks the most fear; when thought
is blank as fog-wall descending.
So far tho, that fear still fires the scour-clear:
drifting
more ashen than feather-fall
what I summon does still come.
As the new showroom was being built,
for the first time I had a sincere interest
in my grandfather’s part
of the family business,
wished he were alive to
walk me through each layer
of the process.
It looked so facinating.
I knew his spirit was somewhere
mumbling,
“Now you want to know
how the damn things are built.”
I wish we had talked more
when I was younger
about how things are created.
He might have taught me
an appreciation for architecture
if we’d had a language we could share.
He might have given me advice
for how to build my own empire
instead of doing a poor job
attending to his.
What we learned to build were walls
made of silence,
resemtment,
frustration,
apathy.
And now I build with words
structures of dubious value
and durability.
And I wonder what we might have built together
if he had ever recognized me
as a fellow builder.
You can only live one day at a time
So stop worrying about the past
And stressing over the future.
Live now, in the present
Because the past is gone
And the future isn’t promised.
Live while you can.
Yes, it’s cheesy.
But take it to heart,
try it in your life.
And maybe you’ll see a difference.
a swallow is a beautiful season
quickly gliding across an open field
she seems to simultaneously
know where she’s headed
and be chasing chaos
if I could follow a bird;
drift in sunlight,
would I feel new?
that is always the hope
rarely the truth
i imagine it can be lonely
up on tiny wings
slowly falling —
darting and graceless
Maybe we are all bad
because in the end
can you really tell between the sinners and the saints?
in the place
we will not name
for what it is
a concentration
of all that is
holy breaks open
