Sue
Incredible beast.
The Preeminent fossil.
Terrible lizard.
The tattoo needle pierces my skin
a thousand swarming wasps
a million fire ants
I wince yet lean into the pain
the artist asks if im okay
I wonder why I find solace in painful things
A dagger through the chest
The ones you love never comming back
I nod and grit my teeth
I’m okay
I’m okay
I’m okay
When she’s finished
she asks me what I think
staring into the reflection of painful moments
I smile
it’s perfect
This right here
is the epitome of male bonding
one guy says, as we sit around the room
watching sports on the TV,
a case-ah beer and no one saying a word!
Mid-swig, I think
is this really
the best that we can do?
My closest friend–
a brother honestly–
once gave up alcohol for Lent.
And guess what?
For forty days and forty nights
we never saw each other.
Not even a text was sent;
nothing so simple as a how’s it going, man?
Then Jesus rose again from the dead
bringing back our companionship
and our thirst.
It’s been too long
we both said
as if booze was our only tether.
We’ve known each other for twenty years.
Everything seems to have to be done over a beer.
Wanna catch up? Let’s grab a pint.
Watching a game? First round’s on me.
Here for trivia? Can we get a bucket, please?
We make it an essential ingredient to the day-to-day
so it’s no wonder to me that some people
lose control. When community
ceases to function without,
the individual is not so far behind.
What happened to just sitting on a couch
or around a fire pit talking about life
without a substance to enhance the experience?
Can love only be shared when it’s intoxicated?
Stargazing on the boat the other day was amazing
but I still interrupted it for another IPA.
A group of us were gathered a couple weeks ago
pouring a shot of bourbon, aside from one
choosing sobriety after recent trouble.
Someone asked should we be doing this around him?
as if we couldn’t give it up ourselves for a minute.
Why do things have to break before we start working on the problem?
I’m not even immune to it myself,
trying to stay sober for a night.
But a couple hours in,
that liquor store across the street
starts lookin’ real inviting
and suddenly I have a six-pack.
Forget the money I don’t need to keep spending.
All for that droning buzz.
All to numb that growing edginess
All in the name
of feeling a little less lonely for a night.
It doesn’t have to be addiction to become a crutch.
To that end, I guess I’m fortunate
that I can’t stand a hangover
else the slope would get a whole lot slippier.
Makes me wonder what I could do
for those further down than me.
Let’s catch up, but over coffee instead.
Let’s watch the game at my place,
I got soda and tea.
We’re here to play trivia,
can we get a round of water, please?
Anything to slow the dependencies down.
And if you’re having a hard time,
please don’t wait ’til we’re both thirsty
to take a lean on my shoulder.
I could be cottonmouthed
I’ll still be there for you.
I could be dead tired
I’ll still be there for you.
Nothing asked, nothing owed
’cause the revolution has to start somewhere,
breaking free from the power of the drink
if only for a night.
If only to prove to ourselves that we still can.
Imagine what we could conquer after that.
I’ve held the weight long enough,
a bellow deep in the soul.
Its held me too,
a realization of enormous gravity pushing down.
How have you lived this long?
a question asked, astonished against improbable odds.
How will you keep going?
an introspection, answer weighed, heft, but simply said.
I will put it down. I will let it go,
a gentle placement, because you acknowledge how it hurt and lived.
And I will walk again,
and you will walk again.
There’s no such thing as a short country walk.
It requires your patience,
Your understanding that you may be out ‘til dark.
You wander the roads whether man-made or animal,
Following the pull in your heart to the next tree,
The next signpost or pile of droppings.
You’ll talk to the neighbor you haven’t seen in a week,
Check that his parents are still doing alright,
You’ll wave at his cows and, if you’re lucky,
They’ll follow you from across the fence for a while.
You’ll hear the calls of life around you
And smell tomorrow’s weather.
And only when too many rocks creep into your boots,
Will you know it’s time to go home.
Bright yellow petals march
around an amber core,
itself an intricate
pattern of future selves.
They float atop tall
stems with green leaves.
Together, they gently shift to
track the movement of the sun.
Perky young blossoms
face out, then with the
weight of development,
the elders droop and look down.
The grown, full-size seeds
will drop from the darkened center
to the ground – unless a
goldfinch finds them and dines.
This year’s sunflower patch
was gifted to us by
the messy eating habits
of the birds we feed.
It has been a delightful
spot of joy to observe.
I wonder if it will be even
more glorious next year.
Sometimes when it rains
on a a soft hazy evening–
the trees become a canvas,
all the greens smear into sky–
a green, crayons cannot capture,
a name no one can come up with.
Rain falls from one leaf
to another as if a zillion tiny
invisible pitchers are filling
the entire world
a tall glass of water .
Birds chat
whistle, chirp–
they know the rain
will last through the night.
Louder, louder the rain spills
over falls
and falls,
a flash of lightening
cracks open
the end of an overcast day,
thunder growls.
You think you have time
You don’t
Despite the overwhelming evidence
I denied
I just so badly wanted more
More stories
You had one for every place I’d ever been
Now when my travels conclude
I’m left to wonder
What your punchline would’ve been
I can still hear you calling somebody a son of a bitch
I’ll wear pajama pants on Christmas
I’ll tell stories
I’ll cling to the advice you’ve given me
Gotta keep going, kiddo
The best I’ll ever get
So I will
But by God, holy shit
The trip won’t be half as fun
Without you here
Sharing in it
I’ll keep notes
Maybe even practice a bit
So when I get to where you’re going
I can tell you stories
You can fill the punchline in
They might not have told me your cause of death
even before the autopsy regardless of if they already knew
because the words would’ve sunk with double weight.
My mother’s whispers cracking like hit drywall, I know
she sees me in you. She sees a dead child.
You can visit the basement spare room anytime, knocking
with the wisteria, find the paintings and TV you left safe.
I never remember how we’re related, not that we ever held
a conversation. I ask which sister your mother is, who to pin
the wings of my condolence to. I know she is dying now.
I’m seeing my future, 30s if I make it, in the twisted mirror
of a Google search, clawing for a face to put a name to,
pan out a mugshot that looks uncanny alike to my father.
I think it’s a blood thing, brainfold, that’s killing us, not
that I wouldn’t blame whatever you took on a tangible level.
I hope nobody knows why I’m crying for you. I’m horrifically
selfish. Stunned silent in my mother’s rainfall, then grasping
my father’s stiff shoulders because he is silent too, at first.
We never hug. But you’re dead now. And the universe’s
apportionment is either poor or poignantly timed, in choosing.
