If my words trigger you
your actions are the searing
pain causing my heartache.
It easy to shut someone down
after you have thrown the bomb
which set them aflame.
Runaway flame-thrower.
My retort soothes my broken heart.
The one you broke apart.
I heard his family buried him in a burlap sack. When one tends to one’s own garden,
rumors can grow like kudzu.
Townsfolk expected his family would choose
final services a walnut and red oak coffin
rendered by a funeral home. crafted by his sons in their farm’s woodshop.
The whole town with his widow, the rest of the family, and
its gossips could parade by the body, close friends gathered to
hear a sermon about eternal life, lift the coffin
follow a purple-flagged hearse in the pickup
to a vault adjoining others behind a church The sons cried, laughed at the surrealty
as they fetched their father’s body
from the hospital
where they could fellowship in the hall where custodians who sat smoking
around hambiscuits and coffee after a blessing, on its loading dock asked,
Father, take him home. You takin’ him home?
Yes, home, they nodded
to our cemetery
on the edge of a pasture
where the boundary
between worlds
is not so firm.
They walked right by Venus and Van Gogh!
Like there was nothing there to know
How can they miss the utter necessity of Art ——its endless astonishments!
The ways it breaks the norms
Ignites new forms
Seeps into your dreams
Makes you think and laugh
And screams
For you to stay
Long enough to say
I wish I had made that
I never saw the world that way
I never thought of that!
And wonder
How did they pull it all together?
Art invites us in
Lets us move around as guests
Gravitate to its light
Heed its call
That makes us fall
Straight into it,
Sometimes deep
Causing worlds to expand
By traveling to a realm
Where I see
I feel
I love
I am
Standing with Venus and Van Gogh!
I always ruin everything
or were my parents just that impossible to please?
Sunlight streams through the window,
and the rain doesn’t wash the bird poop off my car,
and the grass has frosted tips, like a middle school boy going through a phase,
and my parents were unhappy with me.
it was all a phase. It was always a phase.
The phase where I hate myself~
it’s all over.
Rainbows and sunshine and leprecahns and sugary cereal and happiness
(and I’m not supposed to judge my food choices because food is neutral.
but sometimes, I still do.)
Actually, it’s sad to think that my parents hated me
—in general, like, why have kids if you’re going to hate them?
Use a condom, please—
(except, my parents don’t even seem to love each other or be attracted to each other,
so there’s no way they were having sex for fun. They were supposed to have a kid because that’s what you do when you get married, and that’s it.)
there was no way to prevent my suffering.
It was predetermined.
I wish I had a god who would have given me good parents in the first place.
actually, it’s sadder still that now I hate myself for them.
A Sisyphian task, hating myself to make myself good,
good enough for them,
hoping that if I dig a little further, I’ll find that diamond I
can give to them to make them proud of me.
I don’t want to be like that guy who turned back too soon.
my dad said to never give up,
but what am I doing all this for?
Why? It doesn’t benefit them.
Why else would my parents hate me, if it wasn’t for something good?
It’s hard to imagine that your parents are bad.
No one ever wants that.
I have to stop doing things for them that hurt me,
that aren’t for my highest good.
My parents said they wanted what was best for me, and then they hurt me,
so everything is very confusing now.
i was punished for no good reason,
Sisyphus was punished for violating sacred hospitality,
but my dad got away with everything.
I guess bad guys only get what’s coming for them in stories.
That’s why stories are better than real life.
The eager insects invade
Emerging from their dirt dreams
Leaving their shells behind
The sanctimonious shedding of their skin
A rebirth and revival
They scream their solstice song
A collective calling
A lively lullaby
Somehow both spirited and serene
For one fleeting moment
They reign supreme
The bantering brood
Dominating the dog days
We could learn a lot
From these clandestine creatures
Who rest for 17 sacred years
Only to rise and sing, and dance, and mate
Until they’ve had their fill
Seduced by one final sunset
Reuniting with the dirt once more
For one final satisfying slumber
Because words jump into your mind
as you walk, dance in your ears.
You love the shape sound feel of them.
Because you cannot stop the bombs
end the wars save the children.
Because a stranger in a cafe says
“my second ex-wife” and your mind
jumps the fence, a young horse
running for sheer joy.
Because of the careful way your mother
folds a shirt, smoothing warm cotton
with twisted fingers.
Because you can’t paint
or write a symphony, yet
you need to preserve
this perfect pink seaside dawn.
Because you see your shadow
on a moon-bright night and you
are ten years old again, freshly
bathed, wrapped in flannel,
shivering to “The Highwayman.”
Because fitting sounds and syllables
creating architecture on the page
absorbs you more than crosswords.
Because this is how you bow down.
Because sometimes the only way
to say it is slant.
When death
When death threatened you and me
and took you, my sister,
and my cousins Ken and A V instead,
I did not wish I was dead.
As for me,
I fell in the floor and my sister
found out she had leukemia, and A V is dead,
David texted me yesterday, and Ken died, was dead
and buried, for he wanted no funeral, said
he wanted no one standing over him,
them staring down on him, even a sister,
and telling how many women he had lead
astray and how many kids he fathered said
he was a wrestler, one Gene said
you couldn’t beat him in a fight
unless you killled him,
Mister Death.
If I could slit your throat
I would do it with the nail
of my pointer finger.
I would make a blade
of my body. My body
is not your wound to heal.
My body is not some
proof of my ills, is not
your sad acceptance or
a death wish or helpless.
And if I could starve
down to the bone,
I would pop your jugulars
with my ribs. I would
make you see what I see.
I would be so beautiful.
Graduation balloons strewn, blue and white
confetti cake iced, confection delight
warm family hugs and hearty congrats
agreeable nods and atta girl pats
Afterward, Papaw sits in his easy chair
sipping coffee without much of a care
though his health declines little by little
He swears to us all to be fit as a fiddle
All of this will take place today, you know
from welled eyes the tears begin to then flow
You text with much angst you feel like a creep
as you gently rock your newborn to sleep
Guilt for missing the family outing
Guilt for self-care, baby and doubting
that your choice to stay home does feel alright
But darling, don’t doubt your new mommy sight
Ev’ryone gets it and sends you their best
You and babe are home, safe and sound, now
rest
