Posts for June 1, 2021 (page 3)

when it gets better and it’s wheat instead of corn,
grass instead of weeds,
faces instead of eyes and mouths and lips and ears
and the food goes down easy
and there’s more light than dark

when it gets prettier and there’s water everywhere,
and it glistens in puddles and lakes and rivers,
cooling on the ground and
seeping peace into the planet
and the pavement feels less rough

when it gets better and the feeling goes out,
flickers off like a lightbulb and lets you live
breathing instead of holding,
living instead of watching
I can understand

why do words come so quickly amongst
Friday midnight’s half remembered prayers
Saturday morning’s crumpled tissues
and Sunday afternoon’s long walks past blaring speakers and nurtured yards
but when Monday morning comes
the blank page faces me down
and I can only blink back

why do the words scribbled on napkins
finger flown and too autocorrected to be understandable in the notes app on my phone
make more sense
than the ones
I bang out on my keyboard
and edit until I can recite them back to forward

I only find the words I’m looking for among tears
and the scent of barbecue
and so these words mean nothing
and yet they ring true

Turn on the spigot:
let the words flow.
Flip up the switch:
let the words glow.  

What have I done?
Where are the words?
–Nothing is lost
(or so I’ve heard).  

Don’t stop to edit
or you’ll lose the flow.
Get ready, get set:
let the words go!

goety; noun: black magic or witchcraftin which
the assistance of evil spirits is invoked. 

My mother’s killer was beautiful:
large, irrefutable jasper eyes
that seemed to glow from within, 
olive skin adorned with moles,
curling hazel hair that barely fell 
past the shell of her ears; 
her smile was goetic, 
holding me in place—even while
my mother lay at my
feet in a spray of crimson.
Glossy eyed. 
Spiritless. 
Dead. 

I know these women
that have their entire life
crammed into a bag 
with a pack of Marlboros
and a beat up lighter 
that ignites on the third 
strike

they drive 
like they’re running
tires to the road
foot to the floor
with a half working radio
that she turns up on
old songs that aren’t good

and if you get to ride along
theres nothing but dark nights 
no control
with rushing wind through 
a car that has seen better days

however long you get 
it always ends with you
back home feeling hollow
wondering if you loved them
or if that was 
something else 

one thing is for sure 
they’ll outlive us all

So much depends
upon

a hypodermic
needle

glazed with cold
Pfizer.

Without, the world
sickens.

I am not your parent, 
But I am your adult. 
I didn’t cause your pain, 
But I observe your healing.

I’ve only had seven months, 
But I cherish your lifetime. 
I have little control of your future, 
But I hope it is with us. 

I don’t believe in fake flowers.
Just one more thing to pollute
the earth with plastic we don’t
need in the first place,
especially when we
have real flowers growing
right here in the hills.
But I do believe in
remembering
sharing stories
and songs
and sighs
over a fire at the
edge of the field
after the sun’s gone
down and dusk
is creeping out in purple
hues claiming the sky.
Our words floating
up with the smoke
to find our ancestors
to let them know
we keep them with us
to echo our hopes
we’ll be remembered too.

We were forged as family and together we stuck. 

passing your home two times a day this week.
each time i hand crash over to the road and fate,
look for you out tending the irises,
like waiting for the radio to rhyme C with D,
but it goes B.

bad slant rhymes
slant like razors,
bad edge,
rusty edge,
bad brake pads
shudder.

Bad Thought #- – – –
The car is murder.
I’m riding Diomedes’s horses.
Hope my dad is sorry he didn’t believe the clacking in their teeth
When I tried to make him listen.

bitter that i’ve eaten this thought
two or three times a day.

anyways you weren’t outside.