Bleparoplasty they called it
to lift my dragging lids that
cut off vision for reading and such.
Tired of people asking “”Are you tired?”
Afterwards felt like one of those
Keane eye girls with eyes as wide
as saucers.
Felt a fake sense of awe or terror
suspended by those eyes.
Even my dog stared at me in awe
and distrust.
Husband said I looked fine but he would.
The innocuous astonishment lasted a
few days till my mind absorbed my
new look and shifted my morph.
I’m watching a movie about me and see
a full confession stitched across my chest
in big block letters
you are asleep so I stop
the show and go
to the bathroom, put on a
shirt to cover the truth but in the gymnasium
my muscles betray me, each shot falls short,
the ball doesn’t clear the net
on my knees I see
a distant golfer swing with a body I can feel
but it’s not mine
the white ball sails like a flag
flown in victory, lands with intent where it’s
meant to be on the beautiful grassy plain of
irony:
it’s not mine unless I can give it away
and when I give it away it’s not mine
desperate to assist
yet finding it impossible
too far away, though closer than anyone
all I want is knowing you are alright
but you won’t be today
or tomorrow
so I pray and attempt
some sort of encouraging gesture
faltering in my imperfection
and lack of articulation
yet you know I am here
and could be there
will be if you ask
maybe I should be a stronger interventionist
1.
what to write when nothing is right
i am not in the mood for poetry
can i write essays
how’s about prose
what about silly shit
or short stories
i am at odds with myself
where i am in life
who i have become
i feel like no one
i want to feel like
my anger and frustration
often more crippling
than the brokenness
of my bones
send me reeling
to the basement
the cellar of my soul
where i blow and blow
pretending to make music
but spit soaked notes
are the dissonance i emit
2.
how my clarinet playing sounds to my ears
tunes tendered by one in flames
songs sung by burnt flesh
spit soaked notes vibrating sour air
high pitched screeches of death
time wasted
an effort in futility
therapy gone awry
the making of a monster
a loose drivebelt
cliched finger nails on a chalkboard
guess i need to practice more
whereis –
locate the source
for the restrictions.
Only show the unusual.
unusual does not have just one
explicitly requested type.
whereis asks for more.
whereis searches for places.
whereis searches for Info.
whereis searches for sources.
signals the start.
whereis is using the hard paths.
whereis attempts
to use the easiest way
to find
whereis man
—
Found poem (erasure) from the Linux Man Pages. Complete text at:
https://man7.org/linux/man-pages/man1/whereis.1.html
I expected a puddle
but I discovered an ocean
when I met you.
Your current shifts without warning,
But your tides are cyclical, steadfast.
You read true when a storm brews,
when a quiet day greets the horizon,
when a tectonic plate shifts,
And yet, I understand so little of you.
The depths unknown to human touch keep me guessing
because I know the deeper I dive,
the surface’s weight grows deadly,
crushing anything that ventures too far.
Life swims through you as I wade safely,
ankle-deep and unaware.
Sometimes your words become waves;
They often break gently when we disagree.
Sometimes the swells rise with might
and pummel the retreating shoreline without intent to harm.
The ocean (you) do not know their might.
I can feel the riptide pull the sand beneath my feet as the waves retreat,
I steady myself while the water rushes back;
Gathering itself to unfold and repeat the motion in an endless loop.
You are wondrous, mysterious, and familiar.
I long to return to you.
Does the wind ever get tired
always moving
pushing and pulling
the world first this way,
then the other
rushing with breathless voice
stripping away the moments
like loose shingles flapping in a storm
the wind is an organic machine
with tireless patience
it will yank that flapping shingle free
our natural world is field with a mystery of gears
hidden away from casually curious eyes
its unseen mechanics always grinding away
the voice behind it all is winded
a heavy whisper in the leaves
wind, like gravity is at once a mystery
holding the world together
even as it threatens to tear it apart
wind rolling down Kentucky hills
teasing and tearing across the tops of trees
carrying the weight of the world
it is invisible motion
does the wind ever get tired?
Wonderland isn’t anything specific,
Everyone has their own,
It can be places like the beach,
The movies,
Or even another person,
Wonderland is a moment where you are happiest,
Once you find your wonderland you’ll never forget it,
If you haven’t found your wonderland,
Never despair,
Everyone has their own,
Somewhere,
Waiting for them to arrive
“Look not to me for healing! I am
a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle.“
– Eowyn of Rohan
So many looking for rescue; too many to ride in on white horses.
Born and bred with chivalry filling the pockets of my genes, I can
no longer pass out mission statements or definitions printed on these
whitewashed pamphlets.
When did we abandon the fire in the mead?
The furnace burning hot in our guts? We’ve watered down the message,
accepted and swallowed pale missives selling lack, hearts and hands
behind stoic backs. We’re all handkerchiefs and apologies, in waiting—
between texts, between mouths, between truths beneath niceties—
all banners without seeing flags.
No more.
No more will I walk the ramparts, chasing ghosts.
No more will I go seeking dragons as proof
of my strength.
The Lady I seek
is more than some high and vaunted goddess, more than some wilting flower
needing rescue. I’ve been to that kingdom. I’ve attempted those quests.
No more!
She is both earth and fire.
She is wind and water.
She holds her own
sword and shield.
She stands with the elements—
Feet planted in battle stance;
storm screaming in her hair;
eyes that sizzle both lover and foe, alike,
differing only by her word, which washes
the surface of her world in the waxing and waning
magick of her lunacy.
I will not need to protect this one from the wolves (though I would);
I will not lock the doors nor lower the gates (if I could)——-Only run
there, beside her—a blade, an urn, a seagoing vessel, grin of teeth
and claw—our legs churning fog before the sun can think to rise,
the trees and their leaves blurring past eyes,
the dogs nipping heels and hackles
too busy laughing
to question the worth or validity of their names.
I could not name it, a feeling
like a sloshed mother & spoiled
birthday party in a mixing bowl
with rust & gravel. It lived behind
the pale blue Goodwill
sheets draped over my back
bedroom window. I tried
to find it, an inkling, hunch,
slight premonition. It hurt like
a woodpecker beak splintered
behind my ribs but was tinged
with complexity, had a good-
bad twist considering I also
felt hope. It’s not because I’m
not used to it; I collect losses
like pennies in a cigar
box but this was like a train
rolling toward me. No words
for it, when I found out Zoey
died it hit me hard. Not
sweet Zoey, barely 30,
& the last person you’d
expect to leave. I couldn’t
find the words for such sudden
devastation & I was left
with brief gusts of her — long
hippie hair, light blonde & down
to her waist. The way her mom,
when she was a baby, tucked her
inside a rolling tentlike contraption
that hooked up to her bike & she
pedaled them together, chains singing,
to the only laundromat in town.
