Posts for 2020 (page 217)

the mountains are a physical
embodiment of our closure;
a firm period, marking the ending
of something.
the deep, rolling valleys–
the never-endingness to
the Godly fading of the
distance–reminds me
that though things end,
there is something about everything
(the whispers, the words,
the touching, the crying,
the laughs,
the solace)
that continues, eerily…

the only woman i’ve loved
tells me she loves me, but
does her love expand
through the trenches?
does it give into the hollowing?
there is sweat and sand,
wet hair and salty faces,
tears and condolances.
i don’t know what this is,
but i am in love with this.
there is a stillness
in the way we move.

i bless this sad, queer loneliness
between us; i bless it
like i bless the Earth,
softly, like all will be
lost. the gentleness of
my touch and my words
are a forbidden prayer
that everything will last,
endless like the valley…

the wind…

the pines…

the dirt…

the river…

the birds…

the honeysuckles…

Decades of practice
at pariah-like status
in my own family prepared me
for this, the inevitable
turn
where I see the shun coming
double-barrel. How dare
the hippie, the transplant-Yankee
not respect the unspoken
‘we don’t criticize the blue line’
treaty, brokered without my signing
& before my time. It takes a
beat
to shoulder the weight, to slot
a reply sweeter than
‘I won’t shut up. You can die
mad about it.’ from tongue to mind
(as always, I *aim* for kind)….
but
what catches me
is the shine in your eyes. This
is your blood
naming me ‘hatred’, saying
clearly my eyes see evil in souls
where I know it does not reside.
I
am good with it. Unsurprised.
But you
for you, is this new? The weight
shifts, sublimating in saline-light.
Becomes a choice
you now get to carry. All
I can do, is apologize.

Unable to find 
himself, 
he retreated.

I’ve become far too familiar
with the sight of blank pages,
collected notebooks 
and guilt
with the thoughts of filling them.
To taint potential with inadequacy,
hope 
with
regrets.

It’s so much easier to sit and dream,
pretend you’re a poet,
preen and think of every 
masterpiece
you’ll never write.

I remember deleting projects
the day before they were due,
would rather submit hollow phrases
with the knowledge that bad marks
were a choice, not a reflection of
capability.

It’s 11:32 at night.
Not a lot has changed.
But at least I’m starting to turn 
something
in.

When the pain gets to be too much

The bullshit too overwhelming

The world crashing to pieces

Everyone deserves to run away.

Run away from their own lives

For a little bit or forever

To take a break and feel free

Feel alive, feel peace

It doesn’t matter how far

Or how wild of an adventure

Just go.

Pack a bag, take a breath

And get away

If you never take a break

For yourself

You’ll get lost in everything

And you’re light will diminish

I thought
the
pandemic’s disruption
of work in
March
was enough
for one spring.

I thought
the
random vandalism
to my car in
early April,
$3,000 to be exact,
was a bit of
overkill.

I thought
the
flooded basement in
May,
$19,000 to be exact,
took things
to a 
whole
new level.

I never thought I’d see
the
entire country
burn,
(cost TBD),
in June. 

Could someone
please
take me back
to the
halcion 
Ides of March?

for good measue
this thing goes back, and forth
pendulum around novelty
brace for the loosening of expectations
brace for the posssibility of growth
brace for the possibility of change

I remember people’s hands the most,
maybe from a lifetime of averting my eyes.

I can see the smart girl’s curved pinkies,
or the fan-shaped nails of his artistic fingers.

When I meet my father in my dreams,
Even there I am looking at his tidy hands,

mixing the dough, a ring long since pawned-
Never looking into his face to say goodbye.

The answer ain’t in your phone,
Though you search and you scroll
And you lurk and you happy face.
The answer ain’t in your car,
Though you turn the damn thing
Upside down, kneeling, shoving
Your grubby paws under the seats,
Rifling through the glove compartment
Twice, sitting back finally on your tired
Haunches with the most thoughtful look.
The answer ain’t in the sky, especially now
During the great contrail shortage of 2020.
The answer ain’t on TV, not on any of the
Multitude of channels and packages and
Series, even on the “very special episodes”.
The answer ain’t in the mirror, you looked
Before, it wasn’t there, but, well, hell’s bells,
Maybe just one more peek on your way to
Bed. Whaddya know. The goddamn mirror.

I call his name,
And his, “yes, ma’am?”
Makes me pause
Before saying,
“Have a good night.”  

In that,
“Yes, ma’am?”
A flicker of fear,
As his eyes
Slightly widen.

I used to love
When students
Answered,
“Yes, ma’am.”
But now,
All I see is  

A mother
Explaining,
When a white
Woman speaks,
You answer,  

“Yes, ma’am.”