A Fantastical Classified
Last night at cabin
crap ev’rywhere but suitcase
will hire night shift elves
On days like these I busy my hands with odds and ends to silence the rattling in my skull the train cars of my mind continue their death march if you stand too close you may lose grip on reality when I was young my father told me stories of his childhood his brother enraptured by the funeral procession of steel walked along the tracks someone once told him that if he stood too close he would be sucked into the coal powered vortex I can hear the whistle from over thirty years into the future he ran fleshy pistons that ushered his mortal coil to the nearest splintering fence where he clung for dear life I too feel the pulling my train of thought has no brakes no engineer on days like this I drink straight from the bottle I find it difficult to wait until evening I don’t know what I’m expecting maybe that precarious position between lucidity and not caring where this goddamn train will get off it’s Kentucky I know I should be used to this sound but it’s been warped twisted the gyrations of self doubt corrupt even the purest of memories I don’t know if it’s a whistle or church bells anymore but on days like this the world is already commencing it’s embellished revolution I thrust my ramshackle body through this tiny apartment and begin my prayer into porcelain.
today I am crying
for the loss yet to come
I reach for someone
someone who can steady me
prepare me
hold me
simple tasks left undone though
no one is here
unfair as it is to expect
I do long for the opposite of what I have
I read Oliver Twist over eight times
I read Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde over 10
When I was a kid
I used to ride my bike as far as possible and read In the woods of the farm
My copies were dime store novels I found upstairs
Under all of the oil lanterns
I alway related to Oliver
And related to the fear of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
I was a dirty library kid before that
Getting on the computer
And spending my days loafing
The first time I got on the internet was at the library
And I dressed virtual Barbie dolls for hours
At least until my handwritten time had expired
For those in love
if the situation arises where
for the health of the relationship,
one must sacrifice
a day of pursuing their passions,
that one should be ready
to lay down all other goals
in a gift of total self
meeting the needs of the other.
(But it’s also totally legit
if you can later use that sacrifice
as its own last minute poem
to meet all your priorities for the day!)
Your magic flows
Like a waterfall
It shines
Like the sun
It sparkles
Like the stars
There will be droughts
There will be rain
There will be clouds
You’ll feel like your magic
Has run out, but darling,
It’s still there.
You just have to hold on
And wait for the better days
Your magic is tucked away safely
So play in the shallow water
Dance in the rain, and
Admire the clouds at sunset
A beekeeper from halfway
around the world asked
what is blooming here
right now. So I take a walk
and let pandemic and protest
recede for a moment.
Sweetbay magnolia bathes
the front porch in fragrance.
Daylilies brighten corners
with shades of sun. Pink
evening primrose tracks
the day like an array of tiny
radio telescopes. Delirious
bumblebees stagger through
clouds of spirea blossoms.
I find my own mind
at rest in buttery marigold
buttons, wishing I could sleep
there with the bees.
Feelings to words and words to page.
Somewhere in there,
a quiet stage.
A peace I gain
in lone reflecting,
my sinews and
my soul connecting.
I meet myself there,
each time, anew.
I love her then. She loves me too.
I record myself as if in song,
then play it back
and sing along.
No judgement for
these flawed projections–
they lift me up
like resurrection!
I meet myself there,
each time, anew.
I love her then. She loves me too.
I let the hurt
seep in
sometimes,
cut into my chest
and flow through
every inch of me
like ice.
I sit rigid;
the sharp cold
pain takes over
until it throbs
with my heartbeat.
It’s harder
to reign it
back in
with bourbon
and beer
dulling the
searing cut
of reality to an ache,
but I sit here with
the storms
and the heat
and the
changing climate
thinking over
the fate of my kids,
and there’s
nothing
to dull how
we’ve screwed
them out of
anything
other than
cleaning up
this mess
spanning
many generations
before their
existence.
