I feel it when it switches

Leaning back and forth

Children on a swing

We never want to leave

This pattern

Spinning down the drain again

Singing my voice raw

Staring out the window

It’s a choice I make

Coming back again

Whenever you half heartedly apologize

Whenever you feel bad

Even though it’s never enough to motivate a change

I open my heart again

Wincing, waiting for you to break it

You claim you don’t see it

But how can you not notice the pain in my eyes

Look at me

At my tears

And try to say you did nothing wrong

You never meet my gaze when I’m like this

Only for shallow conversations

And discussions about theology

I don’t know

If I can keep going

This carousel

Spins too much

you wear calla lily, i rose. 
one spiral among the lush 
of your hair makes me cry 

and it is difficult to stop crying 
at any point after that 
because i am split open 

by the way God makes the soft 
breeze touch my face 
like a mother. 

our shelled brothers deign, 
for once, to dance. 

neither of us believe in 
being in love, a net 
that falls over your body 
and brings you to the sweet
smelling ground of your spirit.

but dusk lasts hours.

frogs sing the song we wrote
the week we met.
we were tentative limbs
of a desperate band.

we were almost runts.
maybe there was a net.

maybe i am a fish after
all, a shiny brainless magic.

but let me stay human
for a second here.

God makes the soft.

your hair makes me cry.

spiral among the lush.

firefly and chantilly.

A head empty
the thoughts all laying down
tucked under covers
scared to enter the space
anticipating cold, cruel air

I cannot tell you secrets
or the rough drafts in the back of my throat
if anything makes it out 
there will be challenge,
disbelief,
indifference.

Pouring out to a burning desert
what’s on my chest
introduces itself to mirages
then evaporates instantly

the marks on my soul
make their way to the stage
performing to the empty auditorium

If ears could hear, 
if mouths could talk,
imagine what they’d say.

Deadwood, 1876  

In territory swarmed by men
the Gold Rush brought more than fortune hunters.
The Utter brothers rolled in
with a wagon of sporting women.
Wild Bill with his shoulder length curls
and puffing on a cigar rode along beside.  

In the wake of this wagon train Brothels proliferated –            
        The Gem            
        Fern’s Place            
        The Cozy Door.  

New governor and sheriff, a crackdown on crime
ignored the painted ladies. 
The law couldn’t see the slow violence
of this hard life –            
        beatings and laudanum            
        hooch and opium            
        pregnancies and their ends,            
        bad breath, body odor, and diseases.  

Dr. Howe kept a stomach pump in his Gladstone.

I have the power of persuasion
the color of the paint
where the flowers are planted
where to go on vacation
I have no power over what
    
    he feels strongly about

I know when that moment has been reached
I know it
by a tone in his voice
by his posture
by a look in his eye

    he will not be negotiated

It’s been said I get my way
appearing to be a strong negotiator
I am not
he does not care about those things
he does have his bottom line

    he will not deviate.

if you’re going to be two-faced at least make one of them pretty
how else do you expect to charm and delight the masses?
give them a show darling,
make yourself worth seeing

then flee to the shadows
where you know you really belong

I drink too many energy drinks 
To still feel this tired
& 
Write too many poems 
About how heavy my eyelids are

Maybe i should switch to 
Water & morning stretches 
& 
Writing about how the movement 
Is grounding

I use too many curse words 
To consider myself a poet
& 
Not enough coping skills
To be working in mental health

Maybe I should take this
Handheld mirror
&
Turn it inward, instead of outward 

Based on a true story  

A statue of Colonel Sanders stands
at the bottom of the Dōtonbori River,
string-tied and smiling, but mourning
the loss of his hand, left
cursing the local baseball team
who dropped him here,
as only a Kentucky Colonel can.
Son of a biscuit, he mutters.  

He’d shake his fist, if only he could.

during the summer in an old cemetery
under thick shade of tulip poplars,
trunks six feet wide, windows down,
calls of crow, cardinal, mourning dove,
robin, red-winged blackbird. Or under
a sycamore when a cool breeze
from the lake reaches you, or the whoosh
of a goose flapping its wings.  

Or in January cold, when sun through windows
heats the air around you, and the seat hugs
your back. You close your eyes a moment,
open to see ducks perched on a frozen, snow-
covered lake, a melted patch spreading
around them like a shadow.  

Why is it so satisfying to sit snug
in your vehicle’s silence,
and to break it to read aloud
a breathtaking passage,
letting your voice fill the space.
Or glance up to view the vast, flat
horizon pierced by gravestones,
let contentment settle into you
like a haunting melody.                                                               

Hope is a thing
that exists even when 
you can’t feel it,
it embraces you
when you least 
expect it and challenges
you to move forward
when you really want
to curl into yourself
and wallow
but Hope is real
and it can save you
from yourself