I see you in the stars,
the way they shine so bright.
They blink back from the sky
and I know we’re both under their light.

But the stars are lightyears away.
I could never reach them,
never feel their heat on my face.
I watch from afar as they twinkle like gems.

Even if I had a rocket to get there,
I’d burn up on entry,
never close enough to embrace them.
The stars will never hold me.

Like you never will again.
Because I pushed you into space.
I never could take your criticism
with any grace.

The sun dips low,
casting orange across the earth,
like a soft blanket.
I stand at the edge of the dark woods,
where branches hold stories
older than their name.

A deep, and clear body of water
waits nearby – still, honest in its reflection.
I come here to step away, to listen.

The sky deepens and shadows lengthen.
I close my eyes and silence enters me.

Somewhere between a breath and a thought,
I remember who I was
before all the noise. 

Ding dongs, Ho-Hos, and Twinkies lie
on the shelves forever edible
because they are bolstered
by chemicals that keep them
young and appealing to the eye
and to a satisfactory degree the tongue,
like celebrities pumped
with fillers and Botox
and saline solution
who will never acknowledge
they are well past their best-by date.

The one that ripples through my brain
never satisfied with that which lands 
squarely in front of me?

And when the goal posts change so drastically
how do I trust which fantasy to strive toward?
is this the knotch which keeps me in limbo?
Never moving forward, but never truly failing

For how can one fail if one never really tries?
though the failing is imbedded in the not trying
as nails in an oak box below sediment 
I’ve heard it all before

What sight shall I set my sails on?
when every sight has an obstacle
which herds me back to the safety of normalcy
The status quo doesn’t quite comfort me
but it doesn’t hurt me.

Yet.

Neuroscientists say reality is mostly a prediction.
The brain builds a model. A simulation.

An internal map updated by incoming data.
How funny that the eyes do not actually see

the world. They negotiate with it. Every moment
a controlled hallucination checked against evidence.

The brain provides six times more data
than what the eyes are converting into

electrical impulses. This is why grief
can remain visible for years.

Why a song can transport us across decades
faster than light.

I was thinking about this while watching
Questlove’s Earth, Wind & Fire doc.

How every wedding eventually becomes
an argument for simulation theory.

A room full of adults begins shouting
a date. A month. A memory. A shared

hallucination. For four minutes everyone agrees
on where they are. Not physically.

Neurologically. The map aligns. Hundreds
of separate simulations briefly rendering

the same world.

The strange thing is that the brain
is never trying to tell us the truth.

Only what it thinks is useful. A chair.
A face. A threat. A kiss. Compressed

files. Efficient approximations.
Like a video game reducing the resolution

of distant mountains. Meanwhile the universe
is busy being far stranger. Photons. Probability waves.

Dark matter. Whatever is happening inside
another person when they look at you

and smile. This is when you can
see the map laid gently over the territory.

Someone sings “Do you remember” and suddenly
everyone does. Not the same memory. Not the same

September. Just the same desire to believe
our private simulations might overlap.

For a moment.

Long enough to share a dance floor.
Long enough to call it reality.

Fruit vendors kiss my mouth

juicily like this box drips

apricot, asphalt

I was that glum
sitting with Donley and Kate
on their front porch,
and I complained:  “Why,
those sorry old whipporwills
over to my place
just say “Whippor-
won’t.” 
 
“Oh,” said Kate,
“They mean well.”

we’re claimed by a  shy rescue we name Sadie
in the yard she  runs, leaps, bounds and  seems flakey
rolls on her back showing  pink skin and black spots
and in endless-scratching devotion we’re  caught
her grin, her smile, our girl Sadie

They want to send flowers
and a card to the bereaved

but, of course, they’re also checking
whether the funeral is real.

does the moon whisper, too

when she is lonely in the silent darkness of night
murmuring between midnight melancholy
wishing upon glimmering stars, 
to make her feel less alone in this bitter abyss 

maybe, the moon is a braver woman than i

might she howl out into the dusk
letting the fear echo out, covering each shadow in the sky

let the sun hear her cries for the morning light