Posts for June 17, 2025 (page 3)

Ninepins they stopped short of ten
What if I crash their party again
1 afternight óut of sight
Temperance ‘last out of mind
Sylvan Spirits don’t betray my sins

In an alternative universe, I would be
walking along the coast towards the pier
where I’d buy overpriced flip-flops. I’d
need them since one floated away the
other day while I was searching for shells
in the sand and lost track of time. The
waves would have swept the shoe away
too quickly for me to recover my lost shoe.
Instead, I would wait until the next day
to buy new ones. since time flies when
you’re on vacation. Except I’d have been
at the beach for a few weeks as I had
reached countless hours of time off from
work. I’d use these hours to enjoy my life
and soak in the beauty of unique sunrises
every morning along with hotel breakfasts.
It would be beautiful, however I would
wake up from my daydream and find
myself accidently asleep at my desk and
would continue to type up a report for my
boss. It would be due at the end of the day.

I beg for what’s given
out freely
and I give all that I
have———
eat the crumbs I’ve
gathered and still
complain————
rainwater soup that
doesn’t suit your tastes
I don’t have taste or
maybe I did——
maybe I do——
taste is living

Today I am not taking on any new worries.
The worry train is no longer selling tickets,
the Fret Factory is not accepting applications
at this time. 

In the night I glow, sick, eyes wild
like halogen bulbs. I short-circuit,
burning through image carousels.
All the flashbacks cycle, the pace
quickening to centrifuge. It splits
my inner world apart. Sieve through
the degrading fragments of me.
All these empty revelations. All these
premature dreams. All these days
that die just like this: curled on the loft,
sucking down waves of bile and ache,
losing my hands in this endless dark,
realizing they were never mine at all.
Hopeless for resuspension, I try to float
here in the starless black, my soul
so distant from the body that remains. 

Is the point to practice every day, or to learn by doing? Is the streak what’s important, or maintaining the intention?

In last night’s brief and interupted sleep
I dreamt of baking Christmas breads
with Mom. In the kitchen at Chase Lake,
surrounded by pines bent low by snow,

the hollow of the lake a frozen white.
In the silence of the season, we mixed
batter after batter, ladling it into
the large loaf pans that would be Christmas

breakfast, into small loaf pans to give
to neighbors. Mixing, pouring, baking,
cooling, again and again, all afternoon
while snow fell like icing sugar. 

On Christmas morning, we’d drink 
coffee, eat slices of banana bread,
pumpkin bread, cranberry orange bread
with butter or cream cheese. 

a stem
lifeline
for a floret
broken by light
an illusion
still lving

I want my life to be light,
airy.
I’ve been sold a story
of perpetual ease,

like the hardest hardship
I’ll ever face
is a flex of muscles
in the gym mirror,
sheen of chosen sweat
on an unlined brow.

I want this to be light
and airy
and clearly mapped,

but every line I’ve ever followed
has yielded squiggles, disappointment,
heartbreak sharp enough
to shred the page.

So all I have
is the compass of this body,

and it must be broken, too—
it points me always
into the wound,
into the wind,
into the squall,

which is not what I meant
by airy and light,

though I know
and unknow
and know again

that seeds tremble, too
before they give themselves
into the breeze.
              They fly for a moment,
then wait for days
or weeks
or years
to break open in dark ground,
carve a          shattered   line
                    toward a scorching sun.

Today the rainstorms are short but intense
The pouring rain is cleansing the earth
As well as my grieving soul
Between showers, the air smells clean
And everything looks clean and fresh
Except for the wet and angry cat
That is more than ready to go inside
When  I arrive home and open the door