wooden blades cut air in circles
air in circles waft curtains across the window
curtains across the window leave my eyes blinded
my eyes blinded by the beauty of rainbows coloring the sky
rainbows coloring the sky remind me of summer nights
remind me of summer nights so that I never forget
that I never forget to love
to love
and this, she said, this is everything, her right arm reaching in the direction of the great & the good & the way down to the (un)burgeoning river while her left stretched out to carry mine. that was in the last days on the threshold of the storm season, back when she still carried her arms, back when they themselves possessed the ability to reach. when they could follow in what vector her words let out – and so the tire-dead asphalt unfolded.
and what was it that unto her retained meaning?
when she spoke it was my voice; when she reached to take off her skin she wore mine underneath. none had ever seen her honest features before and still neither have i.
this, she reiterated.
who? but already she had turned away, hands still reaching in their opposite diagonal. the limb of her left suspended itself in air as it unwound from its host, fingers into claws wrapping around my own. it had all turned cold, as the blood was rushing back to the body, to where she walked, unsilent, indefinable.
this. what was this?
and to what end carried the stale earth its beings on its spined back, cranking out rotations while she abandoned her ability to grasp what is new forever? something of incandescence; of what was it her invisible lips preached?
everything, her resonance had declared over the earth and the seven seas. everything is this.
pretty boys
with ringed fingers
curling around a pool stick
lining up a cue ball
the sharp smack of
a good hit
pretty boys
with pretty scars
and years lived,
thousands of memories
i couldn’t ever know
pretty girls
with blue tongues
and gold makeup
and green wristbands,
trying to be a yinzer
pretty people
with tie dyed shirts
and holographic handbags
begging the sun to go down
so they can dance
we walk to
“dispensary”
balk at the steel doors
sly glance to
corner cameras
very sly
giant red cross sign
you need IDs?
lazy weed lovers
in days gone
we almost giggle
almost
edibles? sitana?
body buzz, or mind?
Two minds please
We took our sixteen year daughter
To mark off a concert
From a every teenage,
“bucket lister’s dream” list
We had to part at the gate
Too many things we’d carried in
“Rules had changed” they said
Unbeknownst to us
Lost in a sea of people
Drenched in the cold rain
You made the trek back
To the car to drop off
Our too many things
She stressed we wouldn’t find you
I felt the vibration of music
Move up from the earth
Through my feet into my chest
The minutes you gone dredged on
It always feels this way
When we’re apart
I looked on eyes wide
As we moved through the crowd
“Hopeless” she said
I gave reassurance.
To which she didn’t believe.
We stopped to take a breather.
I felt the rain on my face.
Breathed in the humid breeze.
Decided to “feel” my way to you–
I exhaled and opened my eyes.
There was no stress,
No wonder….
I just knew.
I knew I would find you.
As I continued to move through the crowd,
she followed behind me,
near near tears, holding my hand all the while.
Everyone else faded away…
As I turned the corner of a vendor tent–
Standing in the rain,
there you were.
Green eyes wide,
Curls soaking wet, and
falling down your shoulders.
My heart smiled.
Just like countless times before….
When all I see is You.
First, I
Go.
Home, I think.
I imagine, as
—jauntily as I might wish— just
lavishing myself with deep, gorgeous
moments of this endless, effervescent, restful
now.
Over twelve million adult reported serious thoughts of suicide.
Over 40% struggled to access care. In 2023. At some
point we have to reckon that we can’t just ask the
quiet to come.
Rescue us. We can’t girlbossmanifest our
salvation if the
tools are out of reach to
Us. We
vacillate between
wanting to save ourselves and
(e)xtinction. Then we try
Yoga and Sunshine and Endless, Pleading
Zealotries
Mental health stats: https://mhanational.org/issues/state-mental-health-america
Nothing in this house gets cured,
except paint,
and I’m so afraid it’s absurd,
my mental functions ain’t.
Except paint,
the only reprieve’s in lines of poetry.
My mental functions ain’t
what they used to be.
The only reprieve’s in lines of poetry.
I’m always revising
what they used to be,
open wounds I’m excising.
I’m always revising,
and I’m so afraid it’s absurd,
open wounds I’m excising,
nothing in this house gets cured.
How many layers of plastic do I need now?
Is it still one?
And where do we draw the line, anyway?
It isn’t the garbage,
Or the mud
I think it’s the blood-ties
We ate there
We slept there
And now there’s one more
Cardboard table to throw away,
Into this world wrapped with plastic
And back out of this world
Just the same
