Midway between malaise and madness
I blink a baleful tear
crimson, cold with sadness.
The life I’ve left behind
those cut down cowering, afeared
buried in graves with no mark, nor sign.
Burdened by regret and woe
prophecy and path unclear
in my wake fall shattered stones.
“Demon of the West”
moniker hissed, with a leer.
That same face on a pike, at hill’s crest.
Unkillable. Unshakeable. I am the one who waits.
Bane of humanity, bloodthirst I cannot sate.
You let yourself cry
open-mouthed, wracked, faint,
on a gray stone planter bench
in front of a skyscraper
You let yourself break
cavernous, unadorned, blind
into the soft arms of a friend
on Michigan Avenue
I’m here, she comforts
I’m here, just breathe
I pass through the shadow
black box of mourning
it’s raining
and no one cares
Gasping for Air
Suffocating
Frozen and unable to move
I see the bag traveling for my head
and I know to move – yet I am stuck.
Stuck in the same place,
the same pattern,
With the same people,
Making the same mistakes,
And I’m petrified.
It swallows me,
overcomes me,
And I don’t know what to do,
But honestly, who does?
Padded feet resound through the ceiling
Where the masked intruder lurks.
At first, but one named Henry,
Scaring staff upon occasion,
But primarily feasting on crayons
(It’s a poorly recognized miracle that the electricity has not yet been affected).
Then the padding stops,
All is peaceful,
Perhaps he has gone away.
But, alas!
It resumes a month later,
And there is not one Henry,
But two, smaller copies
Intent on making their relocation all the harder.
Before I needed to go
I wanted to watch a final show
With you,
Tucked into my side,
troubled love, I loved you so
These days, I view it alone
The service I subscribe to
Is streaming eyes
O poor poor me oh my’s
I still have two sides in which another love
Can be tucked into
Take your pick
Put your head on my shoulder
Fall asleep if you want to
Stay awake, wrapt in story, together
I might fall asleep too
We can wake later, aggravated
At each other
But I bet we get over it, quickly
Make coffee
Make a rushed breakfast
Kiss a meaningful, if brief, kiss
And know what it all means
Birds and fish are awake
But the sun is still asleep
Our slow cup of coffee a bit
abbreviated this morning
as the return trip begins
with packing. The arrival
seems at a snails pace
but return is is a blur.
Outside, the rain hasn’t let up
for a single moment.
All morning, I’ve been listening
to the pattering and the spray
kicked up by passing motorists.
I’ve yet to turn my lamp on
and I’m imagining everything
as grey.
But not grey in a bad way;
more like a phase way,
a stepping stone way
toward brighter light or darker night.
Each have their respective beauties
and each carries its unique dangers.
What matters
is the direction we are going.
Who am I going to be in a week
when the words slow down
and daily routines change back?
When the literary journey I’ve embarked on
dares me to put myself into practice?
When it’s time to show courage,
to exude agency over life?
To live and love?
Outside, rain remains relentless.
It’s been a long, long time
since I let myself stay in bed like this.
Almost like I’m sleeping with myself;
content, if still a little incomplete.
Allowing the day to become whatever it will
while I rest and recuperate and prepare myself
for whatever life has in store for me next.
Caspar David Friedrich, Monk by the Sea, c. 1808-1810
Languid scape sublime
Numinous depth within us
Now life-loving monk
Oracular seas abound
Antimetabolic sound
