Every so often, as I skip through sentences
crisp as leaves that line forest floors, I stumble upon an unknown
word that protrudes from the page like a gnarled
root. Today, it was “hortatory” that sent me tumbling.
Luckily, the fall didn’t bruise my ego. These lexical snags exhort
me to remember my own ignorance and savor the thrill of so many wonders I have yet to discover.
How does clutter build up so quickly?
The stack of mail to look at later
things carelessly left out
books from the library
It doesn’t take long until you
have a mountain
of stuff to sort
through and put away
It can happen in your mind
as well as your home
stray thoughts, doubts, insecurities
build up until they are a true obstacle
Cleaning your house is a lot easier
than cleaning out your mind
and putting those negative
thoughts to rest
Sunshine prisms on the hardwood
Our clock with 2 year old batteries
Forever frozen at 8:43
I’m sure somewhere along the way
We’ll figure out what it means.
But I think to myself
If the last time, were the last
Twenty-four hours
Would it be enough to sustain them?
Would the last bit of yourself that you had to offer up
The night and day and hours before–
Be enough to last in their memory for the rest of their lives?
Leaving a lasting mark
Etched beautifully in their souls
Stretched out far enough to last the distance
Time, space, and existence
Will ask us to go until we meet again?
Because these moments are all we’ve got until they’re and we’re
gone.
So if tomorrow doesn’t exist yet
And these hours passed are all that’s left,
Was the gifts of yesterday enough?
The laughs that sprang from our bellies..
the hugs that were wrapped so tightly
too many snacks we over-indulged in
the thumbs we rubbed as we so nervously held hands
the love we made—
twice in one day, enough
If “that enough”
was all we had left
to cling to in the dead of night,
when tomorrow…. is the someday
that starts without me and I’m but a memory
Because someday– you won’t see
the last time coming
but it somehow always does.
Make sure… just in case, this last time,
is that last time…
Its good to the last drop—
And never let it end,
a moment too soon.
When I die will the world stop and ask why?
Will they care in a casket that I lie?
Will they cry or eat pie?
I ain’t gonna lie I hope they cry and eat pie.
Eat pie in celebration and for comfort, too.
Cry tears of joy for a life well lived and for a soul that’s ready to go.
and just like that
you’re an adult.
you’re handed a slip of paper
and wished good luck.
you don’t know where to go
or what you’re doing.
just that you’re responsibilities
have been multiplied by three.
wake up new,
face unrecognizable from yesterday’s,
and that’s okay.
find new meaning in stretching,
in eating,
be delighted by the sun’s
strong light on the wall
I want to grow up comfortable.
I want to be satisfied.
I want to have wrinkles from smiling.
I’m gonna
go on walks outside and
I’ll tell my friends
“that’s okay,”
when they’re worried
and smile when I see a cat
I will feel different than I did before.
I am a person who changes.
I’ll
feel my face and
be okay with what I find,
feel my skin and feel neutral (I think there is happiness
in neutrality),
feel happy to be here
here,
here with you,
all of you
I will be happy around people.
it’s who
I want to be.
RESOURCE DRAIN
OVERPRODUCTION
WASTE
“that is” WHITE PEOPLE’s (and now “*~eVeRyOnE’s~*”) Natural Way,”
from Old World to New,
as Tried and True as the
sun evaporating water,
and the clouds raining it back
down to “us” on earth.
…at least that’s what it seems that
[They] don’t want you to think
(or ask in the first place)
about [Their] response when you ask them
why we can’t have a four day work week.
Lying rooted in the shade
of inner-city
oaks
Burled trunks melting over
the collapsing
curb
His suitcase an abandoned
grocery
bag
Containing a half-life with
no return
receipts
Somnolent face turned
towards
traffic
Outstretched arm
languishing
in weeds
Palm upturned
in abject
supplication
I recall my past dirt naps
as the stoplight
turns green
3: Pentiment
vespers
i have never loved a man nor woman nor God
but there is an anchor and cell in me
that wishes Faith only wellness, wealth and toppled walls
yet calls myself hypocrisy
compline
effigy me i
lurk through the window
(wound? orifice? an eye?)
and pleading cry that she stop digging
through this grave
the Goddamn melodrama
it’s not living is it
it’s not living
living
living
living
through other masks and ekphrases have i imaged
these same anchored stones
i’ve closed men’s sight and woman’s eyes
i’ve sewn God’s own heart shut
i’ve dug this grave with lettered hands
matins
and with words chopped minds apart
lauds
Really, some other me explains, it’s just the Law of large numbers.
If a painter paints
or printer prints
an ark-length canon of human faces,
he will of course produce your faces, too.
It feels like summer now,
downpour downing away
long winter woes,
washing our sins into
the Main Street gutters
while we walk unabashed
downtown through a sheet of rain.
Lightning flashes like exclamation points
highlighting clouds
whose outlined curves reflect the
mountains we climb in our minds
as thunder booms deep into the hollers
calling us all home.
