accidental architects
what world
have we built?
and for whom?
If I was the type to cross-stich
or embroider
or whatever sewing type thing
it is when you create samplers
mine would say,
So much fucking potential.
If I painted or sketched,
laid down lines
and sensuous curves,
my canvas would herald
a dusty, sealed jar
high upon an odd and ends
cluttered shelf,
just enough out of reach
to make me need
a step stool to bring it down.
Since I’m an occasional poet,
mainly in June,
a mood will sometimes
strike me hard enough
that words linger in my mouth
trying to be swallowed
yet somehow rising up
behind my eyes
sparkling stars
that I breath to life.
Heavy eyelids
Sore shoulders
Sunburned skin
Goals set
Boxes checked
Lists complete
All
In
A day’s
Hard work.
your elbows are starting to peel
i noticed
as i gently rubbed soothing aloe onto your flesh
i realized
the reason you haven’t shaved
is because it would irritate your skin
i never want to go to the beach alone again
i only like it when i’m with you
we licked ice cream cones after dinner
and i liked the way you said my name with a wide, toothy smile
i can’t wait to cuddle up in bed tonight
bare flesh pressed against bare flesh
kiss me again
i’ll say
your lips still taste like salt
this is what i dream up in my mind
while you laugh
with someone—-else
They say
you
decide what type of day
you will have,
but I wonder
how long I can hold off
the monsters
deciding for me.
Lettuce take a rest
by this big blue bowl of tossed water.
I tomato into a bathing suit.
Even in my dreasing, I’m as thick
as ranch, 1000 islands between
my neck and ankles.
Carrot-legged, I strut by the pool
while a cheddar sun melts above,
cool as a cucumber when I peel
off my cover, ready
for the sun to crisp
me like a crouton.
When I seized time my striving ruled each day
I knew the ways of other men
I saw their minds agreed
To taking and dividing things
And making others kneel
I took up weapons for their wars
I let my name to be called and
Answered yea to things
I knew were wrong
Without complaint
And then at last in wasted age
Christianized like a savage
was one who said rote prayers
In church each day
Wished all who stood before him harm
Counting out his time
Not expecting life to give him peace
I opened a book unsettled, bored
To ease a little crush upon my chest
And read the words
Be still and know that I am God
And most peculiar felt so still
Between two heartbeats in a pause
And found my mother’s love
There in that silence uncontrived
That separates breath from life
All else was anathema
Hurrying to death
And cried in church
Still (The Treading)
Still I rise from the lonely and
daily familiarity of the cold abyss
of my bed, even after dreaming of
the electric death of these endless
days waking and obsessively thinking
and feeling about how my life
has sorely changed—slowly killing
me, every moment passing more
torturous than the last moment
that passed. The hell I’m in will not
move from me. This is where I have
to be, for it’s the good memories
that constantly haunt me.
is it really just a wink?
a yellow sparkle falling from the edge of an eyelash
or is it another dismissal,
something to push me away?
stop looking this way
i can’t tell if you need me anymore.
if the yellow is fake
then I don’t think i can smile with you
anymore.
