Early Pick-Up
under the streetlight
after rooting in the garbage
he teeters off on his motorcycle
Ivory parchment lies pristine
awaiting the scratch of the quill masterfully
wielded by the tower artisan
His ink bleeds grey and blue
adding embellishments of cobalt and green
until the light of day is lost
Another master work patiently awaiting his return
caged in protective iron
shining luminous in the night
The crow family
mocked me, CAW!CAW!CAW!
as I planted corn.
They waited.
Until it was 2 inches tall
then, systematically went through
the 1/4 acre, pulling up
and eating the sprouted kernels,
leaving the tops which looked
like a sparsely spread grass clippings.
They told me they would do it.
pretends he’s a drunk,
staggers through town with that brown
paper bag, bottle
of cola concealed, imbibes
only the sweet fizz of love.
Sometimes I question
if we need it anymore.
Then I think about
conversion therapy, Pulse,
“Justice” Samuel Alito.
Data overload. College brochures blanket my brain,
each a portal to a future both exciting and vague.
Gender-free dreams or ambitious major finds? Bustling cityscapes
or the quiet hum of a secluded campus, nestled in nature’s embrace?
Major mayhem. My mind flips through options like a restless deck of cards.
Archival achievements or something spontaneous?
Will these passions ignite, or flicker and fade into the background noise?
The pressure mounts, a decision that will shape the path ahead.
Financial whispers, a constant, chilling undercurrent.
The shadow of debt, a looming specter of the future.
Scholarships and grants, a lifeline thrown across the churning water,
but will they be enough to bridge the ever-widening gap?
Location’s siren song, a seductive melody.
Places far away hold an electric pulse, a symphony of possibilities.
Others hold the tranquility of nature’s embrace, a chance to breathe and reconnect.
Friends, family, the comforting weight of familiarity.
The fear of leaving, the sting of severing ties
Even if I’ve longed to sever some for years.
The perfect college, a mythical creature whispered about in hushed tones.
Does it even exist? A place that ticks every box, fulfills every dream?
A gender gaiety AND scholarly significance?
Freedom from fradulent politicians AND closeness to camaraderie?
Were I to curl under
the willow as if a cat,
drift to sleep while fireflies
shimmer amid the switches,
I would have no need
for dreams.
Owls glide past, knowing
I am no cat, dust me
with starflakes till my arms
twitch—the only movement
in the wind-still night,
the fireflies now retired.
These hours, dreamless,
still, star-sprinkled, are lost
to any who ignore the maps
that fairies sketched
when willow’s roots
first prodded the earth.
I will drive today,
looking for a poem from the interstate,
listening for the sound words make
inside my head
as I repeat them until they are strong
enough for poetry.
—
Having no plan for poetry
should not be wrong,
could not be write worthy , silently said,
nor a found poem, a mistake,
but traffic backed up on the interstate,
—
a dead deer on the side of the highway,
may be subjects enough today.
Why are you so happy
I’m going to alanon meetings
is it because of its emphasis on how we are not in control of another’s life & how I cannot make decisions for you
is that what you are happy about
a sense of your truly being set free to live the life you want free at last since you now know that I know that & I know what is important is that I take care of myself
is that what makes you happy
all those times you have told me to stop worrying about you
is that why you’re happy
I’m going to meetings
or is it because you know you were never going to give me a sense of salvation and understanding and acceptance of what I cannot change & I cannot change because you are too far gone down a path deep into a well it is very difficult to climb out of so you can have peace take your freedom enjoy your life knowing I will be taken care of because ultimately that is all there is to do
take care of oneself.
Every time I write
I think she takes the pen
The girl you left
She was so young
My work gets disorganized
Too literal
I’m so accustomed to explaining the details
Used to breaking us down into bites
Until there’s nothing left to chew
I’ve practiced every step of your dance until my head has spun
I’m tired of it
Tired of rehashing this over and over and over again
I don’t want to keep singing the same tune
They say doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results is the definition of insanity
I’m ready to let go
Move on
And yet every time I write
I write about you
