freelance haiku
my freelance piece is
due tomorrow but of course
i have not started
On days it rains, I question the grayed out world
at my window, though mostly I accept it there,
even though I can covet the way the world hushes
in the gloaming glut of a nasty storm. I manage
to escape from the doldrums, mostly–through noise
and busying myself from what’s outside–miasma
and tempest. I build things from words when I can.
A poem can be a jewelbox or a tomb, a photograph
or the lash against a cheek. They can also make one
remember. They can also make one forget.
One day, I will forget
every
perfected
beat
of our inside jokes just
between the two of us
punchlines untethered
Gaining speed as they leave the
Atmosphere.
no one shows up & the parking lot is empty
& the light is frozen behind a bank of fog
& he’s parked next to dual dumpsters with
a red warning sign missing its first & last
letters “-o Parking At Any Tim-“ & the store
clerk drags out the garbage & gives him a dirty
look & throws stale pizza on top of the overpile
& a chortle of starlings descend on the pizza
with their yellow beaks poking down into the garbage
& he looks up to see two ravens swooping
in to drive off the starlings & he tries
to remember why he’s sitting there with
the engine running & the sun breaks through
above a bank of hackberry trees & a raucous
screeching fills the air as the ravens take control
of the rotting heap
I never knew her, of course.
Nor did my mother.
And her mother barely knew her.
I only know she was beautiful.
Even the shopkeeper who framed her photo said so,
his gaze locking on hers for seconds in silence.
She lived in that photo,
staring back from her black and white past,
ruffled lace indifferent to us while embracing her neck,
hair – color unknown – up and pinned back.
And the eyes … seeing me and a few generations past me
(or so I believe).
No smile, no need.
And she died.
It’s how it was back then;
you lived, you married, bore life, and died.
Her only trace was that photo.
’Til the rains came in Wheeling, West Virginia.
The sewers failed.
Water rose in our home.
And the box that bore her celluloid bones ….
She died again.
Her only trace now is the negative in my mind,
which I can never reprint.
For what seemed like ages, you have been seen as a plague.
Singeing ends at every opportunity, and pulling at loose threads.
Unraveling everything until there wasn’t much left.
As the recent years have come and gone, new patchwork has been added to cover up the damage you created.
It wasn’t done alone though.
Passing from hand to hand, mending and healing.
Time consuming and exhausting.
Now here it lies, mismatched and misshapen.
But also,
Whole.
I have a way of catching the clock
as the second hand tries
to sneak past 11:11.
Wishes want to slip away from me.
I hold to them so tight,
I’m afraid I’m bound
to squeeze out all the magic of the moment.
I want to whisper to the universe
what I need, it’s so small.
I’m so small. I want to sob and scream
straight into space and time,
give me this one little thing.
I want to tell you too, what I long for
in the quietest part of the night.
But we both know I can’t.
Or it won’t come true.
The peonies won’t bloom.
after a week of living
at my house, my friend notices
there are mirrors everywhere.
it’s what happens when you live alone:
you keep a self following you
through each room. you design the light
to walk around you, careful
not to touch it.
on my walk today
in my daily act of forcing myself
to leave the house, i see smoke
already lining the distance,
the air sharpening its blade.
what happens when you can see death
before you approach it? what happens
when it’s the only sure thing
you’ve got?
in the late sun, my shadow walks
in front of me, leading the way.
i fill my future like this:
second by second, stepping into the space
she left behind, finding my own two eyes
around each corner.
Of course you’re happy, you’re using.
It gets me through the day
a little pleasure.
There are other ways. Prescriptions. Therapy.
All those evaluations.
Questions over and over.
No progress.
I have friends.
I’m happy.
You’re not working. Not paying rent.
Silence
That’s not sustainable.
Sustainable?
I can’t keep supporting you.
Silence
You’ve taken what I’ve given you and sold it to others.
I don’t have any money.
What happened to the iPad I loaned you?
I lost it. I told my friends if anyone finds it,
I will sell them the passcode.
I have to evict you.
Silence.
You have to move.
Silence.
You haven’t paid rent for two months
and the garage door was torn off.
It was broken.
Found doors have been hung, bunks constructed
and an extension cord run from the house for a lamp,
making it comfy and cozy for your addicted and homeless friends.
Silence.
Will you please consider a treatment program?
I’m not going anywhere without my dog.
And I’m not ready for those programs.
They don’t work if you’re not ready and I’m not ready.
How can you not be ready?
I’m happy.
You’re being evicted!
You need to prepare.
Silence
The constable will come & change all the locks.
They will tell you to leave if you’re here.
They will put everything on the street.
Silence.
