In that line of cars,
I wonder how many of them played
something on the radio
Something to drown out
the unbearable silence
accompanied by the engine running
Some would stay silent
Hoping to show honor and respect
And we tried to do the same
Instead, I remember the sound of 2000s pop
gently filling the air
So that we didn’t have to hear
the pin drop
you were afraid
their laughter
chilling you bone cold
you watched
they burned
skin cracking
sizzling
hands curling
i know you thought
believed
the burnings
would satiate
the hate
but
the fire raged
evermore brightly
wildly
see
you are a witch-thing, too
shivered cackles
winding down your spine
they will come for you, yet
your tale is showing.
I’m learning to think in past tense.
My father was one of my best friends.
He sang in a community choir.
He taught Deaf and Hard of Hearing.
He made steampunk jewelry
and loved to go to the comic cons.
He loved me.
He listened to me.
He showed up when I needed him,
even if he had to drive 7 hours to be here.
I forget and have to correct myself.
I wonder how long it will take
until I always remember
that the past is permanent.
I let things go
Sour apple fuzz
tingles as it melts,
flooding the reservoir
across my 9-year-old tongue—
pure sugar the color of neon
olives, poured from a packet
that fits neatly in my pocket
at recess. A leaping chest
I can barely keep up with
follows down the slide,
between the monkey bars,
beneath the clouds at my feet
at the top of each swing.
Fear is waiting
in the back of the closet,
behind the door to the basement,
next to beady, glowing eyes
dripping into a marble ashtray,
but not here, not in a million years
will it catch up to my feeble teeth,
my barely there mind
swallowing days whole, disagreeing
with the wall, with no one—
life is too sweet
I am uncaged
black wings against red streaks
the zeal of knowledge and peace of sleep
colors on canvas skilled for syndication
Busy days take it out of me.
Barely made it through.
Did my best, but now I see
There’s one thing left to do…
Y’all are working too damn much.
I worked for six days, 13.8 billion years ago
and baby? My creative ass is still resting.
“Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop,” is some shit Solomon made up to take the heat off that whole baby halving thing.
“Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” comes from one of those buckle-hat assholes from The Crucible trying to shame an already exhausted wife.
Take it from me, (Hello, I’m God)
idle hands are your God-given right,
and restfullness is next to Godliness.
That’s a commandment, damnit.
