Voltaire said doubt sucks
but certainty is absurd.
The river flows on,
these hills wink at me:
no gain in stagnation, no
growth in a clenched fist.
After so much built,
eroded, rebuilt, collapsed,
I can see the stars.
Joints limbering up,
the hero’s new journey starts.
Oak crowns thrash in joy.
“Will I ever find someone who loves me, all of me?”
I asked.
“You will.”
she responded.
“But, when? I’m so tired of waiting.”
“The day will come, you just have to look harder.”
I’m confused, “What am I looking for?“
“Not ‘for’, but at. Not ‘what’, but who.”
she hummed.
“Who am I looking at?”
“Yes”
I’ve been standing in front of my mirror, “I’m looking at myself.”
“Do you love yourself, all of you?”
“No, never have, don’t think I ever will.”
“You will”
“Huh?”
“The day will come, you just have to look harder.“
I smile.
Can I tell you a secret?
You are still someone that I look up to.
I still don’t quite understand you.
You’ll never know how much you’ve taught me.
Thank you for asking for my insight.
That note you handed to me meant so much to me then.
I’ve always respected you, even when we were nine.
Please do not paint me as selfish.
I still wonder what your sister must have said to you.
That stump still sits in your yard, you know.
The Information Age
seems to be a misnomer.
Certainly its other monikers
of Computer and Digital Age
are much more accurate to the time
yet there seems to be none we have celebrated
quite like the more aptly named than realized
New Media Age.
History already seems
like a really tricky thing to record
but never have we had the power
to completely rewrite it like now
to such devastating ends.
Who needs Bible verses
ripped right out of their context
when you can just mislabel a years-old picture?
I thought it was curious
that of the six stone slabs photographed
commemorating war veterans,
two had not been toppled over like dominoes.
The tagline screamed at the protesters
and movements supposedly carried way too far,
however, I just had to wonder,
why stop at only the four?
Some light digging told me that
at the same time, some unlucky trees
had also suffered a similar fate
and a nearby house had lost its roof.
Clearly, these were not acts of vandalism
from protesters with destruction agendas
but rather the naturally nefarious workings
of a mighty 2018 wind storm.
But just like that
the simple tragedy of four out of six monuments
was weaponized by one
and fueled by many
to attack what’s gone misunderstood
and ignored for far too long
because the breaking point in the issue
disturbs the peace they’ve fooled themselves into believing.
It’s all part of the New Media
of bandwagons and misinformation parades
where many hurl hate at what they don’t like
then run to hide in their digital corners
with their people of identical emotional charge.
No questions asked or critical thinking required
because someone already did it all for them.
The proof of this is right there in the picture.
Nature’s hold on me is loosed.
Shagbarks & starlings, brooks & boulders,
all my soothing balms heated
and thinned away.
Chipped cement, smashed glass
sing a song of consequence
to my bound skeleton,
this moribund meat prison
whose thoughts set fires
and whose voice is drowned
in the free-dooms
we’ve been gifted.
This morning I walked my usual route
around the neighborhood, uphill
and down, without once thinking
about the torn MCL. It’s a little shy
of a year since the injury, and I paid
no attention to where I placed
my foot, or the evenness
of my gait, or how my leg was
turned. I just walked, taking in
the sights and sounds and smells
of a humid pre-summer day
that promised to get downright
sticky and threatened a late-afternoon
convection shower, both of which
it eventually delivered.
I hold Char’s spine together
waiting on a 32 oz water bottle
and a bag of goldfish, caved into
the first bathroom stall when she starts
speaking Spanish, she’s so sweet when she’s
like this.
Glitter on her eyelids makes its way to her collarbone
and to her wrist, she misses most of it
with the makeup wipes. Brushing her teeth
is a two-person job.
I read her the Spanish poems
assigned for class tomorrow
and she finally tells me
where the scar on her back
came from, she’s good at talking
when she’s like this.
In the stillness of morning
as I relax on my back porch
a ruby-throated hummingbird
discovers three silk flowers
nestled in a bottle
she rushes from one to the other
like a pinball darting
from bumper to bumper
every effort futile
reminding me of my own
lack of good judgment
in times past
expending so much energy
on things of little significance
I want to talk with you
like an ocean tide
rising and swelling
crashing and receding
laughter and whispers
uncontained
lapping and grabbing
at edges
water sinking into sand,
instead of overenunciating
from across the street
behind a mask
into a screen,
This loud monotone
like a spoon
clanging a pan
