ravenous
the hunger–
the hunger makes me want for things,
again
I had trouble with my poem yesterday
read it out loud over and over
what did it mean, did it have flow
suddenly a voice bellows
the computer sends a clue
triggered by what it knew
mechanical voice
a pop-up text
note to read
and heed
“If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.” — Henry David Thoreau, Walden
In a time when much is made of differences,
of borders, and of walls,
I am grateful for the expanse
and inclusivity
of this digital space
and its multitude of unique voices
and their words
–intangible and unbound–
that shore up shared humanity
and reveal the bedrock
for a better, kinder world.
For when one hand holds on elsewhere —
Around your steady perch of choice
Leave a length to the left
Cigarette lit, cup its ash in your palm
Over, under, and back: prehensile thumb
Now under (cigarette still lit), over, open loop
Enter, emerge
Rotate through and pull
Time Suck
Fighters
Born to Be
Bled Into Forever
Because the truth of the matter is:
we all want honesty without philosophy,
luxury without misery,
credibility without reality.
So let me ask again:
do you want the innocence of oblivious bliss —
to numb yourself of your anxiety and agony,
telling you to surround yourself in desolate isolation
and let the days slip by without pain or adversity
so you can pretend that this is life,
the comforts and consolations
that spead out like fleeting
constellations of
burnt-out stars
long dead —
or do you want the cold, cruel, chilling truth?
How catastrophic, this all-or-nothing thinking.
Such tribalism, our black-and-white coordination.
Must we pick truth over comfort or comfort over truth
like the tarot’s startling death or falling tower?
Or may we walk toward honesty and hang at its edge
with dignity, with integrity, with fallen grace
for forty days with little rest or reprieve?
May our hearts soften and open with graceful gentleness
as you see your suffering in a cold new light.
Of Fleeting Things:
If you would have asked me last year if I was tough,
I would have laughed
I don’t think of myself as strong, corageous, or tenacious
I feel weak, whiny, and easy to give up
However, I have survived the unthinkable
My son died and I survived
In the days after his death, I wanted to
curl up and die myself
But I discovered that putting one foot in front
of the other and just taking life an hour at a time,
until I could think farther ahead and then take it
a day at a time, until I could think even farther
Looking back, and seeing what I have survived,
I realize that I am indeed made of tough stuff!
