as a kid, i remember running
after fireflies at dusk,
and these specks
of lightning were a brilliant
yellow, like the sun had fallen
to the Earth
but now, the sky is dark
and their little lights
are a dull green, a young
bud ready to be chased after,
but i fear this is only the beginning
of their fading color
Beneath the saline waters
along the abyssal plains,
below where light descends,
that’s where my soul remains.
No coral reef gives anchor –
no algal bloom, disguise.
No guideposts dot the sea floor;
only dolphins cloud the sky.
Brittle stars wave & spin
before hippocamps parade –
a sea goat leads a motley pack
of fish-tailed beasts at play.
They pull & push, toss & turn,
disrupt the flow toward shore,
but waves will never break
this deep; it is still no more.
When this is over, I promise to stretch my
arms out and embrace you, not just
your handsome parts, your pleasant mannerisms,
but even your shadows, even your scars,
whether there are clouds or sunshine.
When this is over, I promise to be
more patient with you, to talk more slowly,
to rise closer to dawn than dusk,
to be close to your heart and body
without crowding your mental space.
When this is over, I promise to caress
every inch of your body, whether you can
physically feel it or not. I promise to
be more of my own person
while still being with you.
I longed to straighten the hem of a lady’s skirt
make something right on this day
Trying to meet your eyes with mine
over all of the unfamilar heads
reading the cards on the flowers
thinking of my own father, my own mother
what I wished I had done differently
feeling your grief and nursing mine, too
wading through the small talk
for Andy
Turning off the neighbor’s tap
The water drips.
A minute depression
worn into the ground
from repeated transgressions.
A metaphorical X
Signaling the exact spot
Where shame breeds
In a child’s heart for
Just wanting a drink or a clean face.
She looks in the mirror now
Both a world away and still right there
A woman still turning the knobs tight
So as not to leave a mark in the porcelain bowl.
Where makeup stains look too much like dirt.
A year to the day
that I buried my mama,
my kitten yelps in pain.
Don’t know what’s wrong.
It’s Saturday night-
no emergency vet.
I hold him,
stroke his fur lovingly,
grasp his tiny paw.
Tell him to show everyone
how strong he can be.
Did these same actions
for my mama.
Don’t know which is worse-
seeing the suffering
or not being able
to do anything about it.
The grassland sea, is adrift on the plains;
A mass of souls, of infinite influence.
Tickling the air and hiding delicate truths.
To seem alive, though to have no will to sway;
The wind stands above it,
The commander and actor.
Man sees itself in these seas,
In the wilderness.
And carries back the experience,
So twisted as to make man stand alone as the commander and beneficiary.
A God came to be, through not his own will to live;
But his world was created by his own creation.
Man comes to be, through the will of man;
And new traits come through his Own creation.
A human beings creation,
Creates a billion worlds.
Disregarding the first world,
As an almost pathetic place.
To live upon it, considered to be primitive;
In the synthetic worlds of this age.
Perhaps it is our senses that are to be fooled,
Rather than the man itself.
Seeking to become simplistic,
Rather than question a question.
To forgo the origin of thought,
To find some numbing life with the edges off.
The grassland sea, is the no mans land;
Upon which he mind is set adrift.
When tired of tedium and inadequacy,
When the free spirit questions not its own creation.
But the byproducts of that first creationist vision,
To be neither above nor below morally to its creator.
Dust from the
Saharan desert
fills these
Kentucky
hills like
smog fills
the city streets.
It settles through
the hollows
making every
scenic view
rolling out
across
the distance
hazy
as I gaze over
the ridges.
I stand
waist deep
in brush
and poison ivy to
reach the black
raspberries
scattered along
the edges where
the field meets
the forest.
Tulip poplar
saplings brush
my elbows,
my fingers
stained purple,
my hair blows
into my face,
and I feel the
humid wind of
change as I fill
my bowl
with berries.
We’ll always have Paris
he said when he left
forever
the chop of propellers and promises
ringing in her ears, her hat flew
off her head towards the runway,
a ravaging wind and the dark night
of no stars.
We’ll always have the lake house
he said as he tried to tighten the grip
around her hand, his voice
almost invisible now.
We’ll always have those grand sycamores
where we tied Aunt Jayne’s old hammock,
rocked together under a lush green canopy,
fragrance and time never ended
that summer.
What is wrong with you mother fuckers?
You’ll always have?
We got weather, an environmental crisis,
constitutional crisis, social injustice,
a pandemic—people standing up for
their rights not to wear a mask,
lots of dead people.
We’ll always have?
We’ll always have?
I’ve written pages and pages
about why you are who
you are and the way you are
penned the cocktail of assumptions
that lead to a conclusion
that I still believe is correct
but after all this
I don’t think it’s healthy
for either of us
to remain
because I’m dead empty
I know now, that I was
throwing energy into
a well
like the one
I found when I was young
and stared at a rippling
reflection
after throwing rocks
and limbs and earth
I remember that smell
of damp moss
knowing how cold
that black water could be
there was nothing I could
have ever said or done
that would have stopped
you
doing
what
did
because it was never
my place
I’ll be seeing you
on the next turn
