I clicked my tongue at the thought of you, 
I couldn’t quite place the emotion
that had begun to build,
or how I never seemed to know
when it forecasted rain.
I concluded in the end,
I didn’t know a lot of things,
but within the spindles of webs
I’ve created, and lines I’ve had to draw,
just to look at you, to be with you, feel you
I knew you. I could see you within
the crude shape of my mind,
and realized late, in a sort of cruel way,
I was enamored with you,
or a bygone thought of existence
that passed for you.

A human shape
but not yet existing model of my mind
and perception.
A race of conclusions but
dreaded assumptions
without stable answers.
I want to know you — be you?
Find you
within the same existence,
over and over.
I want to forget you,
but only to remember you all over again
— maybe a bit sweeter.
A bit kinder. A bit closer.
Rewrite my hypothesis
and then conclusion,
until there nothing more to say,
nothing more to gather or study.
Race against my inner monologue.
Think too hard, too long,
never catch a breath within the heat
of a moment.

In the end all that can be drafted
all that can be found,
was that no,
I truly knew nothing at all.

I stood upon a gentle hill,
covered in field grasses,
crown vetch and Queen Ann’s Lace.
From my point of view
I could see for miles in all directions,
more hills and trees,  roads and barns.
Red winged blackbirds sang and
flew about,  lighting on strange
pipes protruding from the surface.
No houses are nearby,  no cattle or
sheep or goats. No horses will
ever graze these pastures, these
slowly moving, incredible piles
of human created garbage left to
gradually decay over hundreds, 
thousands of years, making this
man-made acropolis unusable for 
the foreseeable future. 
Out of sight, out of our minds…

KW  6/12/23

Maybe I still miss you

Because our time together wasn’t finished

Our story ended too early,

Maybe missing you

Keeps the idea of us alive,

And maybe the day I stop missing you

Is the day the universe gave up on us too,

And you’ll be just another cliffhanger

Learning the word “gate panic”
from a two-people story
about video games and how they are made
from water, and from intimacy,
from paint spilled out against strange pages
of a too-quiet play
is catching my heart in my throat.

I am always much younger when the
stories of the games begin, and I start 
off running first. 

I win. I feel the panic sooner–
of the two-person whistling
lonliness worlds,
as they intertwine and unravel
and intertwine again.

I think the inventors cannot catch up 
to me, and I cannot catch up at all. 

Sometimes I talk like a pirate. 
You might think that’s weird, but I can justify it.
With a parrot on my shoulder, singing sea rhymes, 
I sail in my boat, because boredom’s a crime, 
And when I talk like that, I can right it. 

(view the booklet/zine I made for this poem)

my mom says my friends will
some day be angry at me

for now, I watch their
anger from the sidelines

but that will change,
she tells me

I want to be happy.
I want everyone to be happy.

anger is sad;
I live in avoidance (of it)

it’s nobody’s fault,
but I dread the day
we are truly angry
at each other.

The poet hand-claps rhythmic sevens synchs wordplay tight, no repeats.

haiku

all the writers said,
after you went to sleep.
that they have no words.

Soft steps thru lush grass
Toes dig into cool, dark dirt
I’m finally home