My uncle died alone in a hospital room.
The doctors called him a “non-compliant frequent flyer”.
For years I checked if he was alive through arrests.org.
When he made it 6 months between bookings I’d worry.
He lived in a condemnable house with no running water.
As a kid he let me ride on the back of his four-wheeler.
He smelled like engine oil and tobacco then.
Above his bed hung a deers head with wonky eyes.
He drank Dr Pepper and scattered bottles all over the floor.
He once caught his own car on fire because he wanted a new one.
He brought my grandma 4 gallons of tomatoes when she was dying
so she could tell the nurses she would can them with her grandma.
He nodded out by her bedside every night until she passed.
He left everything to my cousins and I.
I don’t know why, except there was nobody else to leave things to.
I don’t know if he ever paid taxes but I’ll find out before probate.
His water bill was up to $900 before they shut it off.
I couldn’t guess what outfit he wants to wear in his casket.
I don’t know if he wants mahogany or cherry wood.
I don’t know what songs he’d like played.
I can’t help but feel the crushing weight of knowing someone
no one cared to know well.
Still, someone has to write an obituary.
When the world you thought
was moving forward is now
skidding into reverse and
gains that seemed assured
are dropping like dead leaves.
When you reach the age when
friends die faster than you
can make new ones and
your knees and hips and back
ache when you try to do simple
things that once were easy, then
you begin to appreciate retreating
into a past, that maybe true, maybe
not but, in it you you could run
and ride sleds down icy hills and
walk the train tracks into town
without wondering even once
if your body was up to it,
if your luck would hold, if
your friends would have your back.
Trapped inside my mind
With no way out but a pen
I am told to write
But a pen is not a key
I am still locked in
I want every word
I type or pen
to be profound
touch the depth of being human.
I’m a savage snake in a box
by brevity or levity
wholly constrained.
At the mercy of my mind
my motivation, my pain.
Nomadic hunter
following my creative buffaloes.
I fashion weapons out of words
hurled from flesh and bone.
Look to the stars for inspiration
sit motionless as the moon glides home.
Stare until my eyes dry and glaze
the sky my kiln, glass-blown.
Constellations tesselate
usurped from their thrones.
Every word must matter
I strain, I groan.
Come hell or high water
I will squeeze blood from this stone.
i’ve got thick new skin
and a cat that kills
i can fly, but i have crooked wings
i also have gills
Sometimes, no word exists to say what we mean.
Trapped as we are between dirt and sky–
our footprints of carbon, our head in the Cloud,
just animals leashed to our senses,
singing the songs of our empiricism
with meteorological metaphors
or with those of war or sports–
our language often fails us.
How marvelous then are the spaces between words–
where sounds rebound in echoes
and connotations can expand like universes
and pauses become eons for our neurons to fire–
where intuition finds meaning
and writers and readers meet.
How unpromising must a book become
before you decide never to pick it up again?
Or does the need to finish the story keep you bound
to what you know could be a loss of precious time?
What exactly would that binding be? Guilt? Need for closure?
The fear of missing out on an unexpectedly good ending?
What does it take to finally tear yourself away?
How does a book feel if it suddenly gets dropped?
Some say not to stay where you’re clearly not satisfied
especially when there are so many other books to read
but how can I avoid repeating a mistake
if I don’t know what mistake I made in the first place?
Maybe it’s because metaphors are inherently flawed.
People are more complex than the finality of ink on a page.
A book read now and the same book read later
might somehow be two completely different books
or maybe I’m just a different reader, wiser,
better able to connect with concepts once beyond me.
There must be more to following your heart
which isn’t to say there aren’t times
when the dopamine knows exactly what it’s writing about.
Thus the limbo of setting a book down
and wondering what the point is.
I can’t change the words I’ve read or where they’ve led me
but is it not I who in my own story holds the pen?
Is the next page not blank, patiently waiting for my direction?
An advancement of the plot? A step toward a climax?
A line gets written then erased, written then erased again–
every day a new way to word the same disappointments.
How unpromising must a book become
before I decide never to pick it up again?
I’m sad
Circumstance were right for a moment
That time has passed
I’m sad
I have reasons that I feel are valid
But I feel others judge
So I keep my mouth quiet
But my eyes tell it all
I’m still sad
People don’t know it
They continue to look pass me
They don’t want to see what they saw before
There’s no time in their lives
I’m still sad
My laughter is drab
Yet they find it funny
I’m laughing at myself
They are too
I’m sadder
Nothing to look forward to
Don’t want to look back
They are gone again
Though the said they’d stay
I’m sadder
The sun is so bright
Yet it doesn’t shine
I’m dealing with conflict
Internal deep within
I’m the saddest
Alone in a wilderness
Trees won’t sway or lend shade
Animals are living life up
Parties in their respective homes
I’m the saddest
Me……I am
Alone and I’m sad
Lonely and I’m still sad
Me…..I was
Forgotten and I’m sadder
Born and I’m the saddest
Raphael, School of Athens, fresco, 1509-1511, Stanza della Segnatura, Papal Palace, Vatican
Layette
Loose end question
Poetry in motion
All spoken, perfect harmony
Hidden
