he was born
with an axe
for a tongue
just like his daddy
when he grew
to be a man he
splintered women
just like his daddy
he planted
his seed in a
splintered woman
just like his daddy
she birthed a
son from her
splintered body
just like his mama
he was born
with an axe
for a tongue
just like his daddy
when he grew
to be a man he
splintered his
own tongue
spat it across
the room he
refused to be
just like his daddy
laying face up in bed
studying patterns in the ceiling
like i used to do as a kid
trying to make sense of life
the way it moves the way it hurts
the way it doesn’t always work as intended
the wounds we take from trusted sources
how hard it can be to recover from loss
–
a little bit of day-drinking at noon
the epitome of relaxation
while I listen to an album of music
because she said it was her favorite
later go for a walk getting caught
in rain trickling petrichor
lightning flashing overhead
envelopes of thunder
sometimes I think of getting struck
just for the excitement of it
then a piano version of a heavy metal favorite
derails my thoughts for three and a half minutes
–
a river of ants on the sidewalk
makes me wonder what the fuss is
then a suspended insectoid arachnid whatthefuckisthat
it’s getting scared by a firefly is what that is
back at the apartment pull out a chair
and hope the rain doesn’t slant into cover
i need to read more books poems
to feed my soul with more positive things
–
and by day’s end i’m at peace
because little is as bad as it may seem
panic and stress take hold of the mind
only when the skin is actively bleeding
of course you’d rather there not be
scabs and scars to offer their reminders
but if our story were to end today
i could confidently say I could walk away
i still think there’s another chapter though
maybe more if i’m honest to desire
and i’ll turn those pages when the words are read
all in search of that happy ending
–
all in hopes
that the next time i march
into these wounds they’ll reopen
just a little bit less
“A mathematical proof must be
perspicuous.”
– Ludwig Wittgenstein
When it comes to mathematics (for me)
nothing ever adds up; one & one
are never one, & seldom
even two.
Then I meet you,
& everything’s Euclidean—your body
creating lines Copernicus could not
begin to explain; my eyes align—
my hands co-orbital—you are
art begging ekphrasis.
My body drafts
a sympathetic response; fight or flight for
dominance. You say it drives you wild
when I take control (redaction: to do what you say).
I smirk. I say
the lesser lights of our world are (but)
adornment: glint & glimmer in the sheen, sweat
tracing caramelized curves, stretching, unfolding
against me; your figure is in bloom. Mocha & peony
pleading I speak in the soft, pink tongues of nature,
of science, of sacred geometry.
This is something
I understand: We are better when we are not
parallel—we are parasympathetic in that alignment; but we are
ever-expanding, exponential, existential bell curves
in perpendicular space—we are
perfection at right & wrong
angles—
you in reverse: muscles between shoulder blades rending
my mind in bed with discrete mathematics; you exhale &
your back goes supine in the nebula of my chest, my mouth
resting in that liminal space at your neck, lips brushing ear,
two sets of eyes contemplating stars
until you are folding—a salutation to those suns, my hands on hips
bearing weight of impious friction. Diction comes apart
on my tongue—we eclipse; eye to eye but you’re shooting/falling away,
hands & arms a disappearing act against the floor behind an hourglass,
your legs like rays spreading the heavens wide before closing the distance
behind my neck, the arc of your backside longing, resting, in my arms until
you become release; I become a wreck of joy & freedom, heart & mind
freed from every obtuse explanation–expectation–& this….this is…
This is both the truth & proof: Entropy as natural state
but for now, if only now, we are
this.
This.
Welcome to one of
“America’s Top Cities”!
Can you spare some change?
Cool, dark, brooding moon-
shine there upon the hill.
Rigid white pines,
night sky etched like velvet.
The General Store
opens at nine,
so says the sign.
A shopper in line
buys bargain bin wine,
pickles in brine,
cheeses sublime,
seasoned meats sliced so fine,
smoked fish without spine,
grapes from the vine,
apples that shine,
a spray scented with pine.
A charcuterie he’ll design
with all items combined.
(Well, except the spray)
Three days ago we celebrated our 33rd Wedding Anniversary
Just the two of us
Best friends for life
Husband and wife
Yesterday we celebrated our 33rd Wedding Anniversary
We shared a toast
Confessed our love and thanked God above
We prayed for 33 X infinity more years together
Today we’re still celebrating 33 years and 2 days
Counting each sunrise until our 34th Wedding Anniversary
Let there be cake
Champagne
A toast
To
The
One
I
Love
The
Most
There are giants in the sky.
And the sky is a neighborhood
filled with suburban picket fences
and golden retrievers.
There are giants in the sky.
And the sky is a great white building,
filled with great white people
puppeteering
their constituents.
They are capsizing their ships,
blaming Ishmael and Muhammad and Buddha
and everyone but themselves,
the Great White Whales.
There are giants in the sky
and the sky wears blue
like a uniform
and carries a gun
like thunder
and yells freeze
but then it shoots anyway
Giants
Men
White Men
Cops
Bad cops,
good cops gone bad
because the system they trusted
twisted them into versions of themselves
that they no longer recognize.
Versions of themselves
that shoot black kids
with candy in their pockets
like Hansel and Gretel
being shoved in an oven to burn
and told
“Well
they should have complied.”
Great white giants,
terrible, scary
say they’re wonderful,
in the sky
watching and waiting
for us to kill each other off
not realizing
that the revolution is coming
and we are sharpening
our axes
and heading straight
for their Beanstalk.
