Once in a while,
there comes along a piece of art
that everyone can agree on.
They don’t agree on interpretations
or how it should be appreciated,
just the fact that it should be.
It’s something that can make the world
set aside every difference
if even for a few seconds and say,
“This is something that means something
to all of us.”
This art is rare,
but it’s out there nonetheless.
To experience that togetherness,
brought about by these creations,
is an art all its own.
I walked outside this morning
And the air was heavy with the scent of fall
But it was mid summer.
As soon as I inhaled
The memories of you,
Of last fall,
Flooded my brain,
The way I associate memories
With smells is incredible
Things I thought I had forgotten about,
Come back in an instant
Riding around with the windows down
But wearing sweatshirts
It was cold but we were hanging onto the warm weather
And each other.
We’d eat greasy food at 12am
And talk until 3am
Every night we’d find each other
Like it was instinct
And some days I don’t remember everything
But these summer days
Where the air is colder
And smells like fall
I listen to our playlist,
And bask in it
Just to feel it all again.
their song came on
the speaker drifting it out of the first floor
kitchen window
for the whole block to hear
and her cherry stained apron
transformed into the prom dress
she never got to wear
to the prom that never happened
the memories of which were only dreams
she created when her tears had dried up
and there was nothing left to do
but imagine
what might have been
I stand at your casket and stare
Feeling oddly empty
I guess I’m supposed to grieve now
But it seems a little late for that
I grieved the loss of you years ago
As a child, when you walked away
And never came back
Daddy’s little girl grieved then
Surrounded now by family
Waiting to offer solace and comfort
I want to turn and scream
”Where were you?”
Where were when I was
Grieving for real?
But I already know
You we’re there
Failing to even acknowledge
That my whole world was torn apart
Decent people don’t talk about
Things like that
So I stand at your casket
Searchung for something
Anything in the emptiness
That resembles a suitable
Or normal emotion
But there’s nothing.
Erasure of “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”
by Hank Williams
Hear that
midnight train whining
I’m I
I’ve
night
goes crawling
behind
to cry
weep
When leaves began to die
That means he will live
I could cry
silence falling
lights
I
I’m I
I learned of your death today.
Surprised, I am sad
because you died.
I am not sad for your work.
Directing and teaching,
young actors, playwrights,
writing plays, a couple of novels, a memoir,
finishing a new play on JFK
his death, one of your obsessions.
I am sad
no, outraged,
by another obsession.
Great actor training guru
preying
on young female actors
discussing their acting skills
utilizing power, luring them
into your lair of command.
Your late spouse endured your dalliances, lies,
persistent narcissistic preoccupation.
You closed out those who cared for you.
I am saddened for a period of your life
when you irreparably
damaged and damned young lives.
And you said you were threatened
by a young schoolboy who told you
to leave his mother alone.
Her husband was a self-made man,
an up-and-comer of his own devising,
one of those who reads things
so he’ll know exactly what to say.
One night
at Porsche Club
he took a sip of wine
—Is that what they call it? A sip?—
and discoursed on its qualities,
then got up and went to pet his car
—Is that what they call Porches? Cars?—
or perhaps to brush an insect from its windshield.
While he was gone,
she took his glass and held it to her lips
to see
how it was
different
from her wine
which at the very least was from a different bottle
or perhaps
to see
if she could smell and taste what he had
and yes, she thought,
it is definitely different.
He returned,
said, “Here,
let me taste yours”,
and
—You know where this is going, don’t you.—
took his own wine
from her hand,
sniffed
—They don’t have another word for sniffed, do they?—
and sipped
and described it as completely different
from the one he’d tasted first,
discoursing at some length on just exactly how.
—I mean,
okay,
it had been in the open air
awhile
and things do change
when they’re
exposed,
but still…—
Some years after that she left him
and some years after that
—It was after decades, to be honest,
decades of cohabitation.—
she up and married me.
—I hate to humbly brag
but I will always gladly tell you
exactly
what it is I do not know.—
She calls me
her “little lifelong learner”,
—As Bucky Fuller said, “You can’t learn less.”—
calls me
“ignorant
in the best of all possible ways”.
Dig a hole in the earth
and root yourself there,
then hoard the sun
until it warms you,
coaxes tendrils, then blossoms,
from your fertile loam.
Curl as a leaf
beneath a child’s magnifying glass
and let the beam burn you
to emptiness, then breathe
into that space.
Open as the resin-coated paper
to the enlarger’s ray,
then in the safelight’s glow,
slide into the warm bath,
rock gently, and await
the image of your soul.
