Posts for June 8, 2025 (page 13)

my poetry;
cleaning tidying organizing streamlining decorating fluffing and comforting my den, my castle, my haven;
sleep;
rest (while awake);
my to do list is a
a jumble of rice
falling off a plate
trembling atop a rolling ball.

instead of asking others “please don’t ask any more from me,”
I will ask my mouth to protect my time.
(Ready?)
“I can’t right now, sorry.”

 
 “You may never have to experience mega hard times 

dew drops

You are to me like what tears are to my eyes

Like heat is to my neck

Like sweat to my brow

Like weakness to my knees

You just can’t leave me the fuck alone

Why can’t you leave me alone?

What the fuck is so hard about that?

You are to me like weight is to my chest

Like teeth are to my nails

Like swirling is to my consciousness

Like silence is to my lips

Floating above myself and also grounding me to earth

Like ringing in my ears

Like pain in my hips

Like screams trapped in my lungs

Like bile gathered in my mouth

Isn’t that what a mother is supposed to be?

These bubbling fonts of ink where birds do grow
and chirp, and chatter, flutter all the day,
they are a place I often love to go.

Tired life I clutch, the hours long and slow
by these a-flowing, tetric pours of shade,
said bubbling fonts of ink where birds do grow.

By night ears catch the whispers and the groans,
a man, hanged child’s choked sibilance do say,
this is a place you’ll often love to go

deep where no traveler returns, the hole,
and to its haints on trees grotesque who sway
these bubbling fonts of ink where birds do grow

and chill me skinned, flesh off denuded bone
and flay my scalp from forth atop my grey,
all this a place I often love to go.

Taken to death, cicadas, scarabs sweep me home,
smeared in dung, the sticky detritus of jays,
these bubbling fonts of ink where birds do grow,
they are a place I often love to go.

I walked the labyrinth tonight 
unwinding my thoughts –
letting the day spiral beneath my feet 

I walked the labyrinth tonight –
watched the sun set in an apricot sky 
Wisps unravel against blue-grey clouds 

I walked the labyrinth tonight 
said goodnight to the chirping sparrows
and listened to the robins bid me adieu 

i a m t o o m u c h 
y o u r a n a w a y 
i a m m a k i n g 
a s s u m p t i o n s
a g a i n 
l i e s i t e l l
m y s e l f 
t o h u r t m y o w n f e e l i n g s
m y n e w f a v o r i t e 
w a y t o s e l f h a r m
m y t h e r a p i s t 
r e c o m e n d s
t r a n s p a r e n t c y
i a m o p a q u e
w a l l s u p 
n o w o n d e r y o u
n e e d e d s p a c e
l i e s i t e l l m y s e l f

When you don’t hear its prayer. (Poems do
pray, stuffed away on shelves, their words
grow old, hardly heard, less alive than AI.)

Still, they pray in your mind as you travel
some Robert Frost pike, a college town
ahead. Frowning, you wish you could stay.

A poem dies when its dusty music is muffled,
its ink weakly coursing through consonants,
words flying a final time — scattering, hiding

in crags of oaks and elms. At last, they lay
ready to die, but for the poet out for a walk,
his hound dog moping along sniffing the bark.

He flushes the words from their holes, so they
take to the sky once more. Warmed by the sun,
filled with wind, the poem’s time is not yet done.