So
One word—
so.
And suddenly
a thousand forgotten rooms
unlock themselves inside me.
A voice.
A season.
A life I thought had ended.
Strange,
how memory waits
inside the smallest syllables.
Like humming birds
my migratory friends
helicopter around the world
seeking nectar
for their big ideas.
Sometimds they return
for the holidays
The quite of June allows me time
to contemplate the arriving demise.
I know what I tell myself is pure
myth. I fight the urge
to clean up all my messes
for when they return.
It’s good enough Z. Z. Good enough.
A deflating rumination
rises out of your kidneys
and connects with the unclaimed tears
dripping down your brainstem
as you ride past the billboard
that displays today’s date.
You’ve missed another Pride Fest(ival),
not that you would have gone,
even if you were free,
but suddenly the happy hordes
on every sidewalk for miles around the city center
make more sense than the other events
you’ve missed over the years.
The idea that you might stop by
or make a shimmering appearance
for all of ten minutes
is now as dead as the roadkill robin
you passed on the street today
as you ignored other ignoble duties.
While your time with friends was needed
and you came back with other souvenirs,
you also came back and wondered
whether next year will be the time
you try to rejoin the horde again.
The best pride is the spontaneous kind,
where some wrong turn
provides the situation
for you to glow without regret
among an army of all ages
of people certain they want to be there.
hate to break it to you
but
she doesn’t love you well because
she wasn’t shown how to give or receive it
and every time she told you that you weren’t smart
you believe it
told you all the things you’d never be
and that when you finally got the keys
to Your Very Own Apartment
she didn’t cheer or clap
instead she told you
you’ll be back
it’s almost as if she’s happy with what you lack
maybe it makes her whole
maybe it fills the deepest, darkest part of her where there
used to be a soul
because i can’t understand how someone could
fail so hard at motherhood
and produce a daughter that even the strongest dad
would have a hard time being proud of
just imagine your life right now
if you had been allowed love
or maybe i shouldn’t mention it
the epiphany, this time
i’m beginning to be who i described
in the first seven lines
A lot of poems are
wishful thinking about love,
each verse a part of the car,
vehicle to the stars above.
Wishful thinking about love
might not take you far,
vehicle to the stars above–
kind of a cheesy bar,
might not take you far.
The stalling realities of what’s called love,
kind of a cheesy bar,
like the heart you hold is a dove.
The stalling realities of what’s called love,
jolts that can leave you ajar.
Like the heart you hold is a dove,
but at your sides your arms are.
Jolts that can leave you ajar,
looking to hail a cab or catch the bus,
but at your sides your arms are.
You’re arriving at obvious from oblivious.
Looking to hail a cab or catch the bus,
each verse a part of the car,
you’re arriving at obvious from oblivious;
a lot of poems are.
It’s been 4 months,
16 weeks,
160 days
No matter how you measure it,
There is nothing more satisfying
Than the feel of the day’s end
When the sun has beamed down
Tanning my skin, bringing out my freckles
With the taste of salt and sweat lingering
A plate full of fruits and crisp vegetables
Giving a nice treatful, crisp bite by the pool
The lazy, hazy days of summer have arrived
Wild, curly hair and sun-kissed shoulders
Watching the sun sink into a cotton candy sky
Driving along, Sledgehammer, by Peter Gabriel
Plays on the radio, in the background
Like a collect call winding back the clock
Reminding us of a different time
Calling us back in to
A place we wish we could
Forever call home.
Engaging
with a stone-cold fantasy
is the only way
to get rid of what lies beneath.
A repetitive comfort
brought in time
with nightfall
burrowed deep
like sin under the skin.
Hopeful
that what you seek
will be found
and that you
will wake up alright
in the morning.
