A warm shower
at the wrong hour
feels like a vacation
It feels like a fancy hotel
while the candles melt
establishing a slight sensation
Close your eyes
as the steam will rise
and you’ll drop all your reservations
To feel you’re fresh
is to feel your best
like a mental lavation
I go to these things to socialize
That’s why I arrived late and left early
That’s why I stood outside the whole time
Thats why I wasn’t paying attention to who was talking
That’s why it took a full 40 seconds to place you
That’s why I chuckled to myself
when you said some things in earnest
That’s why I muttered
and slurred my words nearly imperceptably
And I broke that glass when it fell from my hand
I wasn’t on a substance,
I guess I was tired
Digesting the huge meal
Or all the solar storms
That’s why I built the fire
cause magnetic fields are wreaking havoc
in my brain
Its full of swirling liquid
My body, going in four directions
(I forgot to drink water)
And I put way too much on my plate.
Ah, but it is normal.
I’m what they may call a weirdo
These storms
have raged since before I was born.
A row of opposites, some funny, some not,
there for everyone to see,
but what is the point?
So many messages in so many directions
each of them only deliver
a single gulp of a breath.
A picture, a page, a degree,
a sign, a move, a note,
a memory, a word, a hope,
a gesture, a religion, a job,
a gift, a respite, a retreat,
a history, a game, a chance–
the medium fails to matter
if the artist is never in the room
with the art they envision.
The point is not to look back at the end
and assemble the pieces
into a whole;
the point instead emerges
that writing the story is the point,
not relishing your product through productivity.
hovered over the poets
like a floating period,
waiting to descend
on anyone who goes long.
I love books. I love words.
I love fantastic worlds
and mundane ones.
I love reading in bed,
in the bathtub, standing
in lines, at the doctor’s office,
at my desk at work.
I will probably die
With a book in my hands.
I could not read today.
None of the books on my shelf
spoke to me. None on my Kindle,
none at the library. No audiobooks,
nothing.
I just sputtered to a halt
in the middle of an afternoon,
like a car out of gas.
I’m not sure
what to do with myself
if I can’t read.
What do non-readers do?
i was looking through old pictures
and was thinking of you like i always do
what if you never went outside to be alone that night
it’s those horrible accidents in the paper
“a 12 year old died swinging on a rope swing”
you never know grief until someone you love is being grieved
your mom and dad were smiling in the picture of all of us
not knowing their lives would change in a few months
not knowing your dad would have to try to do cpr
and your mom cried out all her tears hoping you’d make it out of there
i thought you’d see your 13th birthday
but you’re forever 12
you were a star
that burnt out
long, long before
you were meant
to leaving the rest
of us behind here
in the darkness
gone from the sky
on a clear night in
mid-august, leaving
just a little stardust
behind like sand
i search the skies
every night for you
but some day….
…some day i reckon
i will finally stop
For every action
there is an equal
and opposite
reaction.
The time spent with a lock pick at a keyhole,
eye glued to the dark other side of the door
like your parents’ room when you were small,
half=remembered quilt covered bed
and an dusty valet stand in the corner
and a lace doily on the dresser with perfume bottles.
You feel the click
more than hear it
as you turn the pick,
turn the knob,
feel the vibration
of unoiled hinges.
Half-forgotten blank spaces obscure the scene
of a man, of a woman, of a husband, of a wife,
of a little boy standing in the doorway
unnoticed in the dark.
A new diagnosis.
A new lens
through which
to view myself
and my past.
Discovery and mourning,
compassion and regret,
acceptance and adaptation
will all be part of the journey.
