Posts for June 8, 2023 (page 9)

And now Pat Roberton’s dead
A sign? 
Blow, Gabriel, blow. 

My heart brims with you;
even if I had ten more,
they would overflow.

Now that you’ve graduated,
walk into a bar full of nuns,
cockroaches, and dragons.
Realize that this is no joke.
Realize it’s a classroom, not a bar.
Order a round for the house anyhow.
Learn from everyone.
Change habits.
Outlive the next war.
Breathe fire.
Don’t take advice from anyone, poets especially,
but stay humble and open-minded.
If asked to give a commencement address,
keep it short
and don’t make it about yourself.
Let joy inflict you.
Choose wanderlust.
Do cartwheels or fly in circles.
Waltz like a shy sunbeam
crawling across a wall
in search of a window to climb through.

There is water in the basement.

A pooling putrescence, obscuring the legs of your mother’s antique nightstand, the one with the missing handle, the one that doesn’t match the bedroom suite that you’ve got on layaway.

I stand on the stairs, surveying my shallow, fetid surroundings and I imagine my grandmother’s face. I picture her at the flea market, moving deliberately among the curios, longing for what she left behind. 

I imagine her running her hand across the nightstand, tracing her slender fingers over the gold leaf embellishments, pulling the brass handles to check and see if there was anything left in the drawers, if her photos had made it across space and time and landed here, off of route 25, in an overseas unknown.

We didn’t know she had been dying for a long time. A demise brought on by heartache and cancer, tears flooding into skin, swelling her bones like the legs of the nightstand in this sorrowful submerged basement.

For the next several hours we’ll wait for the waters to recede, and then restart the process of her erasure.

There’s a type of spray rose that embeds itself
in you in such a way that you can’t shake free
of it even a week after its thorns pierce
your tender skin.              

        They burrow in, infecting your finger pads.            
        Raising the question of pus and when and            
        how it will drain.                  The problem is  

the thorns are tiny. Pervasive. Like the scales
of a fish. Or pollen in June. You barely touch them
and they’re already in you, velcroing themselves
to your active hands like              

        countless little kiddos hanging on arms, begging
        to show you what they’ve made, what they see.
        Their whole world right in front of them.  

I look up. Venus is 63.187 million miles away
from me, today. Not even this is a constant.  

        Her light is lush and soothing. The beam
        a miracle of gratitude.  

I say thank you.
I know I am more than this.  

But, the thorns call. Pressing. Hot with fever.
I consider how to remove them before the
infection spreads. I worry the thumb and
weigh my options,  

        gnawing the flesh absent-mindedly
        while mulling over other things like  

how far away the planets are.  

        The easiest way to tell Venus from Mars.  

Whether or not I’ll have children.  

Without meaning to I find myself finding
solace in sucking what was once my everything.
My mouth puckering against my own soft flesh.
Nursing the wound.              

        I look back up at Venus. The light’s gone            
        dim. But, I’m sure it’s nothing.  

A passing cloud.                        

        A cosmic shift of galactic traffic.  

A moment of rest.    

Sun glistened streaks of orange and pinks as it slid over the hill.
Eight of us gathered for fine dining under the stars serenaded by
an orchestra medley of Beatles songs. The table was set with china,
crystal, candelabra with the crown of three forks on our left.
Jim had won the lottery ticket for this festive Chef’s table from his 
Chef’s Association.

Quickly gathered friends and family for this fun event. Three women
without their spouses, a gay chef friend, our daughter Holly and husband
Chris and us. A motley mix ready to enjoy the ride. Three chefs expertly
served the four courses deftly prepared with wine and champagne lavishly
flowing under the stars. A slice of heaven on earth. Wish I could recall
what we ate. I remember the laughter, the toasts, and “Hey Jude”.

Holly and Molly all giggly from the bubbly escorted me to the line of blue
and white soldiers at attention for the guests. They led me in the dark through
tall uneven grass all three stumbling. I got shoved through the door but screamed, 
“Someone is in here!” We didn’t knock but he didn’t lock. Holly and Molly doubled
over with laughter as he said, “Come on in! The more the merrier!”

At dinner you promised them to me.
Our favorite waitress cried
When I showed her the ring.
She must have known,
they all must have known,
and I tried my best not to guess
what you we’re up to.

100 kissed, I covered your face
and neck and hands with them
over desert roses, spindly
and pale, waiting for the rain
that comes only once in a lifetime.

100 mouthfuls of sorrow swallowed
from someone else’s heartbreak,
my heart now filled with sweet cream
and bright red cherries.

100 years lived in 100 seconds,
each one I count and taste and savor
while our lips touch 100 times more.

Empty bottles?
CVS receipts?
Buying bottom-shelf bourbon with a credit card.

Sweating nights?
Vomiting mornings?
Hangovers so often you forget there are other ways to feel.

Bargaining?
Lies?
Years spent alone hunched over a drink and a screen.

Pushy texts?
Oversharing?
Acting like the center of the universe, so someone might notice I’m broken and
Fix me.

Voices?
Loathing?
Hours each day convincing myself I want to live.

Catastrophizing?
Alienating?
Knowing the only thing that can help is a drink.

I don’t want to scare you
But its important you understand.
I’ve been to Hell.
It doesn’t frighten me.

far reaching joy floating on air
gold leaf and honeycomb news
daughter’s recent engagement
may her heart never feel caged
may she soar forever

“on the spectrum”
means what?
living in a rainbow

inside a hologram?

refracting light?
your green 
aura invisible?

the spectrum 

a euphism for
so weird no one will
play your games?

no one wants to
read your maps of
fairy land?

lonely…but  afraid to
make friends… hiding
in closets… under tables?

escape from bright lights
recoil from cacophony 
from swarms of voices?

you wave your hands
you rock on the floor 
you crawl inside yourself 

your mind explodes like
skyflowers in July
                   you
Dance in your own Sparkle