Posts for June 1, 2022 (page 7)

Give me your black olives,
and I’ll give you my tomatoes

I used to like olives,
but then my mom died

Somehow,
there’s a correlation

We can just throw the onions
back in the bowl

You want it all the time
And the things you have
Become things you once desired,
Now faded into the periphery
Of your monovision focus upon
This thing you want.
This thing you do not have.
This is why I tell you now–
Count and polish your treasures there-in.  

I went looking for my heart once–
Found bleeding under
A death mask’s grin.

Coney Island heat

A hoard of children appeared

Dunked my fiancé

A lament for Job,

I’m writing these words, out of obligation.

It’s a waste of time,

of resources,

of space.

I don’t want to write what I’m thinking,

or feeling,

or have been wanting to say.

I’m just going to keep trying to make myself feel like i’m ok

and nothing ever happened

for fear of hurting you.

I start with a local paper 

at my housebound neighbor’s kitchen table. 

Universal, not the New York Times.

I read a clue out loud. I look at her. She shrugs back. 

I read another. C + 4-Down?  We both shrug. 

Maybe I say you have to know the language. 

We both laugh. I tell her news about my albino robin, 

Harmony. It’s a distraction. I look down but he doesn’t fit 

any clue. Smell or sight. This one I know, and it fits. 

Hum, all this time and only one 5 letter word filled in. 

Maybe if I read the answer key on the next page 

when I can’t get one? If I do this often enough

will I catch on? We both laugh. Hum. 

I thought a suns spring shine was here to stay, then you bring nine mammatus clouds that are gray

Touché 

I sought five drums with beats that wildly play, to dance brutalise on feet I adjust for ballet 

Touché 

I allot sums of time to pick and arrange a bouquet, then she doesn’t show up for the rest of the day

Touché 

but I also fraught over emotions that led me astray, now I think not about notions you send me my way

TOUCHÉ

It’s 3 o’ clock and

everyone is wearing evening gowns

such a frivolous event

for such an unknown town

he sits beside himself, in the

corner where the the lights are dim

he had thrown caution to the wind but

it came flying back at him

horrendous decorations of pastel

dizzy chandeliers of iridescence

groom and bride make vows on god

but he questions omnipresence

what if love is pointless, he thinks

what if celebration of it is too

what if not understanding the feeling

or what comes with it is nothing new

he takes his last look at the couple before

forever holding his peace

watching his former lover

marrying the man of his dreams

When someone is hurting,
it is easy to say “stop hurting.” Ain’t it?

(In my chest there is a pouring cup
and it never runs out.)

Turns out, saying nothing at all
is just as bad as saying “please stop.”

(And on the cup, I mark
and remark your name.)

We’ve had this conversation 
over and over. Over and over,
we’ve traced these lines like sky. 

(Before, the cup upright.
After, the inevitable spill.)

Someday, a committee will build a machine
to extract all our rage, our sadnesses. 

(And in my chest there is a pouring cup

                                           I love three women with feeling,
                                           not fingers, without the joy
                                          of sex, ever, for each one of them
                                          gives me poetry to write
                                          upon empty, lonely pages.

                                           As each one of them ages,
                                           so age I. My words on a line, my insight, 
                                           imparts peak experiences about them,
                                           with them, without them and how I enjoy
                                           each minute, each second of momentary reeling.