I knew this page of scripture well,
had copied it many times before,
but Father Midone was over my shoulder,
so it felt like twice the chore
for Father Midone seemed never pleased
by any page I had copied yet
and though he did not often speak,
Father would grab me by the neck
Midone’s finger would then point
at a tiny smudge upon the page
and I would drop my quill, humilated,
and begin to fill with rage
for I was born left-handed,
a fact I could not change,
and if a smudge did sometimes occur,
should Father act insane?
I picked up up my quill, started again,
for the page was nearly done,
then the bell announced dinner was near,
and I smudged it, just for fun
I took that page of parchment,
still wet with carbon ink,
and laid it on Midone’s chair,
hoping he would sit to pray or think
then sit, he did, oblivious,
absorbing every drop,
and as the ink dried on his ass,
he became the true dalcop
I see the presents you dropped off imagine the thought you put into choosing what I would like the book you found for your niece & nephew the inscription you wrote inside
your effort your desire to connect with family that won’t connect with you because you’re a homeless addict & you want so much for them to accept that fact & they can’t it’s too unpredictable
& you will not let go which means it has a hold on you like a love you can’t let go of like a daughter I can’t let go of & yet I must as I drove off today after telling you to do it your way but don’t ask me for money anger in my voice & it’s not like this is the first time I’ve said that
I’ve said it before & the drug that has taken over your mind has now taken over my mind & I don’t know what your withdrawals feel like but mine feel like vomit
I am now going to light candles take my bath & go to bed knowing you are resourceful & will figure out where to sleep tonight even though it is so cold.
morning ritual
light a candle, today two
present my cares to the Universe
I lay out the pieces of my life
Friday, so how hard can it be?
accept what I cannot change
reminded the sun belongs to all of us
rays free for the taking
accept what’s good, all the joy
joy despite and instead of
joy arrives in the morning
announce I am grateful and determined to sing
What do I do when questions form
in my mind like diamonds
tumbling from the sky,
questions I know
will destroy the witness
facing me on the stand?
This father, who’s not my father.
This son, who’s not my son.
Selfishness twists my dream to a halt.
My Arjuna says to Krishna
Tell me another story.
I turn my aggression inward,
turn it down,
unwilling to be ruthless with myself.
the nonplussed mullioned window’s maw,
Summer visits brought Ralph Waldo Emerson
To his great-uncle’s Kennebunk home,
And during those visits,
The poetic seeds he must have sown.
It was here the noted writer composed,
To have known his thoughts and dreams,
The themes he may have written,
And what he may have seen.
This must have been his sanctuary,
For crafting the art of the written word,
And creating the most amazing compositions,
The world has read or heard.
Perhaps his finest poetry and essays
Were written in this 18th century Dutch gambrel,
And if the walls could talk,
There would be amazing stories to tell.
This poem is displayed at the Historic Waldo Emerson Inn, Kennebunk, Maine.
Our pilot,
Akin to a stressed soccer mom,
Drives fast; tries to out runs the storm
He’s mumbling over the intercom softly.
The cabin walls quiver like a tired lung holding a breath.
We’re just kids,
in the back of the car,
It’s better to sleep like you’re dreaming.
A girl cradles her child’s skull in the
crooked arm that holds her glowing phone.
Their skin breathes through each other
still one body at this stage.
All the men in the room have bowed heads
like nonchalant prayers; their faces in state fake rest.
It feels like our collective mom is pressing the breaks.
The baby’s mouth lies agape with a tear of drool;
its dance descends down like windowpane rain.
There has never been anything to hold onto in this life.
The rain, wet hair moving,
across the airplane’s tired eyes–
We are but tiny babies huddle on the back
of a drowning spider in this storm,
Humbled and choiceless.
Very hard labor.
Two years in all the worst jails,
hours on a treadmill,
a plank bed with no mattress.
Then they took away his books.
