Wednesday 6:00 AM
A plague of grackles has descended
Their rusty-gate call pierces the silence of my mind
My thoughts, like seeds scatter
Gleaned by a scurry of squirrels
A plague of grackles has descended
Their rusty-gate call pierces the silence of my mind
My thoughts, like seeds scatter
Gleaned by a scurry of squirrels
I’m sorry you lost your sister, Margaret,
and I wish it were October
when I write poems, but it’s June
and I’m stuck with blooms and sunshine,
not zombies nor jack-o-lanterns that decay,
scattering images reflecting pain and horror
I feel but imagine as broken geraniums.
And I’ve never written from the voice
of a drone and think that’s cool, too.
But I’ve never lost a sister.
My heart breaks for you.
1.
it hurts.
oh, god, does it hurt.
2.
“if you need anything, just ask”
is mostly just a nice thing
people say to make THEMSELVES feel better
about what you’re going through.
3.
no one knows what to say
so they stop saying anything.
4.
i saw death in your eyes.
felt in your
gone grip.
heard in the tick
of your heart.
saw the blood
comes out cold.
green glow
on your face,
i hear the yellow of you
turn gold.
5.
i’m fine!
i’m totally fine!
i’ve never felt an emotion in my life!
6.
you can usually blame the red eyes on allergies
and no one will press you further.
7.
all we ever want is more.
8.
clawing at the side of a cliff.
hoping hard–praying harder–
for a handhold.
find purchase only in the air.
nothing to catch me but the ground.
9.
people will say you’re
asking too much,
being too much,
wanting too much,
holding on too long.
you’re not.
10.
it hurts again.
Why are all
the billionaire philanthropists
either fictional or dead?
I won’t mention Bill Gates, newly divorced.
Forget Bezos and Musk, and those others
encouraged and pampered with blood money.
I guess Carnegie,
before he died,
built some great museums.
At least Nobel–
with his gunpowder fortune–
wanted a legacy
more than the bodies
he left behind.
I stopped watching comic book movies,
stopped watching cartoons; no caped crusader
will save us all, even though we crave their care.
It’s an old story. On one side,
the good. On the other,
they who desired the unnamable–
picture a mask ripped off a Scooby-Doo character–
a villainous human being who wanted
something so bad, they covered themselves up
with monsters, ghosts.
There is a future to be foretold
For the man near the river
As childlike memories swift past him
Near the sunset of another yesterday
“I want to be an astronaut.” He used to say.
As he stares at the water as if there were galaxies to be discovered.
He dips his toes.
The sensation trickles from below
All the way through his spine.
This was a familiar feel and tune
That he has grown accustomed to
Yet it is something he misses
A yearning, but the ability to be able to Is no longer a place he can see
A man steps out of the car nearby.
It’s time to go back to work.
Something that has claimed to be freeing
Or have the ability to be free
Is really the shackle and chain
That keeps him from floating into a great unknown.
**TRIGGER WARNING: Self harm**
Hair clumped with snow, lips tinted blue, skin colder than death. Golden light reaches her through the trees, but her still heart says she isn’t welcome there. She built her own castle from ice blocks stolen from the rushing river. Adding berries, pine cones, and evergreen needles to stop the monochrome. What else was there to do in this wasteland? But ice warps everything: berries become drops of blood, pine cones fisted hands, evergreens a mirror. She’s tired of reliving that frost-bitten goodbye. But what else is there to do in this wasteland? Icicles form on her cheeks. They grow longer as she sits on her throne, staring at the walls. The blood. The fists. The sword held to her beloved’s throat. Golden lights never come near her castle during the day. Sometimes she thinks she sees them at night—through the walls, through the ice—but she’s never sure if they’re really there or if it’s just her memory playing out before her eyes. Again and again. The blood. The fists. The dagger held still at her side through fear. There’s nothing else to do in this wasteland. The icicles frozen to her cheeks are sharp. She breaks off one with a snap like breaking bones. She holds it like a knife, using the point to pry up her preserved skin. Her wrists are blue. She’s blue all over. She’s waiting for the blood to flow down her throne, like the blood in the walls, the blood on her hands. Maybe then she would be forgiven. Maybe then she could forgive herself. There’s nothing left to do but try. The blood. The crown fallen to the floor. The sword turning, aiming at her. Her wrists are gaping open now, like twin smiles, but still the blood won’t flow. It’s frozen in her veins.
How one man
Embodied a country
His writing a gift
A revolution
A stone in your pocket
Rubbed raw with desire
His prose eventually
Spreading the globe
Words riding the rails
To Buenos Aires
Stowing abroad
A slow boat to Havana
Catching a flight
To Paris
Hopping fence
After fence
To find us sitting
In this outdoor café
Talking over coffee
And street noise
About the men we loved
And then didn’t
The ways we write
The times we can’t
People we know
Their dreams so sharp and tender
She checks her phone
While I create my own magic realism
A goat at the crosswalk
A barista with wings
Jagged lines of fuzzed light
weight
move
heart
head
weight
heavy
misted
hills
wait
fuzzed, jagged, lined in light
