in a room full of breathing
the inhales and exhales,
hot air pumping into the air,
I struggle to breathe
the fans blow,
rickety and squeaky,
sleep is hard to come by
and yet the others sharing this room
are off in Sandman’s arms
and here I am,
sleepless
in a hot room on an air mattress
listening to their breath
“Say what you mean
and mean what you say,”
I tell my students,
“And if you find yourself not wanting to say
what you actually mean,
Then that might be a sign
That you already know
That it’s wrong.”
And I just know these teenagers are getting it
As I bask in a wave of
Oh shits and damns and preach, girls
And I feel like a Good Teacher™.
That night at dinner
Between swigs of cheap beer
A friend says earnestly,
“Guess who I talked to today!”
And I truly do not expect the answer
So badly
That my glass is frozen midair
Stuck in the space between the table and my face
A still life in shock
Begging him to shut the fuck up.
“He’s actually doing really well now, y’know,”
And my friend’s girlfriend
Kicks my shin under the table
Hard
Trying to hit him.
He –- unstruck and unbothered,
Me struck and bothered for the both of us ––
continues,
“And like, I know what he did to you
wasn’t super cool,”
His girlfriend downs her drink in one go
And avoids my eye,
“But like, he’s grown up a lot
And like, he has a girlfriend now,
So that’s something
Y’know?”
But it’s not.
And I don’t.
And I just wish
That if he won’t shut up
That he’ll at least be brave enough
To say what he fucking means.
“Then Moses cried out to the Lord,
‘What am I to do with these people?
They are almost ready
to stone me?’”
– Exodus 17:4, NIV
What is the difference between striking and speaking
when a rock is meant to give water, that one would
be obedience, the other judgement?
All around, I see the masses turning out, removing
their masks, revealing their spirits and hearts, and
I am shut away—shutting away—the words I would speak,
silence riding my tongue, silence enveloping this place,
silence as solace as circumstance as judgment. But Who
is judging?
She (the collective she) is going out—out amid the noise,
out to celebration, out to the clamor of cymbals and drums
of war. She (the collective she) is beginning, or continuing
to pour herself like new wine into old skins
–fit to burst–
I am hiding in, abiding in, biding time, binding lips, beating plowshares
of swords in my chest, wondering when. When does the star shoot—
again—across the darkness of this sky—the long-awaited messenger,
herald of the new Now, the now when it is time to remove
fetters from phrases and philosophy and the folds
of the part of the arc of the chapter of the story where
I leave
this mountain
I’ve built
of thirst?
I’ll say this once;
you are not responsible
for their happiness
and they can not be
responsible for your own.
Be self sustaining
otherwise your heart
will be forever broken
while you reach for
someone else’s love
Our pasts flourish in our most present moments,
conjured by resonance and captured by now,
melding what was with what is
Beholder, wonderer, and historian of mind,
falling short of recollection
too often and never enough
Stories untold by graces of give and take,
instances rewrite memory’s splendor
It’s been months since time was defined by given names or counted by ticking hands on numbered faces
Drifting in some expanse of mirrored realities,
unable and unwanting to discern between now and then
Free from the clutch of constructs,
I wander in waking memories
It sounded like
such a great scheme in my head,
when my sons poo-pooed toast
and said, “Waffles instead!”
But surely I missed
an ominous sign
when the old waffle maker
was so damn hard to find.
It began with a “no”
to the bag of Krusteaz,
from which even I
can craft waffles that please.
“Oh no,” they both said,
“we’re not eating those,”
so soon Bisquick powder
coated both of their toes.
I watched as my seven-year-old
squished his raw egg,
and the batter flew right from his whisk
to my leg,
And I tried to ignore
the sobering fact
that each waffle I cooked
came out all charred and black.
A nicer mom
probably would have said, “It’s okay,”
but that didn’t happen
in my house today.
Lesson learned, waffles burned,
all further conviction
that I really should stay
the Hell away from my kitchen.
An urge to be in it, the green space
Of peace below timothy’s field
Hidden amid bramble’s knot, an
Unseemly wilderness where the smell
Of sweet-grape overcomes the sour
Air held by the bower’s heavy cutain.
My desire drains the power language
Might summon from such a languid
Stir of limbs. I climb a wild cherry
To view our former place of tryst,
Know it as flickers know it,
From above, from hard stems
And pressed beauty. It’s filled
With the nerve to tell me nothing
Pa said we was gonna have a picnic,
down to the meadow, near Uncle Green’s.
Ma is bringin’ berries that Mary did pick,
and biscuits and bacon and beans.
Brother says he will catch some fish.
Pa said, “No chance of that.”
I will bring the blanket, glass, and dish,
for girls–bonnets. For boys–a hat.
Pa hitched up the tired grey horse.
We loaded the wagon, climbed inside.
He flicked the reins, he chose his course–
to the valley did we ride.
We neared the creek, the sun at noon–
brother could not wait.
Pa brought up the wagon a bit too soon.
Brother fell, with pole and bait.
I set the blanket, the plates, the glass.
Mary–the forks, knives, and spoons.
Pa stared up as dark clouds did pass.
We all heard the cry of the loons.
Some time later, my brother did return,
carryin’ three small fish and actin’ gay.
Pa said, “I reckon that boy can learn.”
We laughed and et ’til end of day.
a darkening of the skies
escalating breeze
foliage yields loosened petals
confetti flutters the air
