apology to a dead poet
i’m sorry
i killed
that bug
with your book
of love
poems
17 years ago we were living in a much smaller town
with a much bigger yard
a field the school used to own,
then blurred into our property lines
the bushes outlined in honeysuckle
my brother gnawed dry, and i found too bitter
17 years ago i moved into my own room
in the too-many-rooms house
i lasted until the first storm,
ran back into my brother’s room,
and re-bunked our beds back together
he kept the loud bugs at bay
and made sure scary Santa stayed away
17 years ago i drove a barbie car
up and down the hilled suburb,
stuck it into bushes and the ledge at the end of the driveway
my brother towed me out,
rope tied from the back of his tiny jeep
17 years ago my brother helped me steal a kitten
from the trailer across the street
the neighbors put her outside with no food
i cried leaving her alone, so inside she came
tucked under my cat-adverse brother’s arm
17 years later i live in a bigger town
with a much smaller yard
lined with trees full of the bugs that scream
my head aches from the noise,
and my brother always seems to be far away
I think the universe is the largest,
slowest, most boring pinball machine imaginable,
although maybe the problem is me,
me failing to imagine the metalloid
asteroids pinging between Mars and Jupiter, the whirling
electrons inside the asteroids
decaying radioactively, crumbling
into the elements of their elements, jumbling
deeper into disorder before tumbling
between the flippers of consciousness
(each of my brain hemispheres is a flipper),
falling, falling until they land right here, on this page–
—–
I think the universe is a carnival funhouse on fire,
everything is more exciting with twisted mirrors and slanted floors,
everything is even more exciting when everything is aflame,
scientists say that both fear and excitement
are fueled by a surge of adrenaline,
and I say that adrenaline is the opposite of death,
because if death is a flatline on the X-Y axis,
then life must be the clattering roller coaster
next to the burning funhouse,
careening through the center of the burning funhouse,
the carnie at the controls had not slept in thirteen days,
the carnie at the controls was me,
the janky clanky roller coaster crashing
through the roaring funhouse was my life
and I was riding in the front coaster car,
I was riding in the front car and controlling the controls at the same time,
this sounds impossible but it is true,
I have no idea how I survived
but I am glad that I did
and I don’t live that way anymore,
but I regret nothing and enjoy reminiscing
because it reminds me that I was not
and still aren’t the opposite of alive–
—–
I think the universe is basically a meth lab,
lots of containers full of volatile substances
interconnected by tubes, and the fluids
are stable when not mixed together,
but they’re also not very interesting
in isolation and can even lose their potency over time,
just like the therapists say, but on the other hand
the intermingling of the substances must be done
with utmost care and mindfulness,
with impeccable timing and volume and proportion,
because we all know what happens
when the meth lab goes wrong,
when the delicate pattern is skewed,
we’ve all been through it one way or another,
one might call it the hot blossom
of a perilous new world, although I prefer
to just call it the Big Bang–
—–
I think the universe is an infinite set of nesting dolls,
layers cascading endlessly in both directions,
there are times when I need to wind things up,
there are times when I need to wind things down,
the nesting dolls will gladly accommodate either desire,
but because they are infinite
they will never provide closure,
no rousing climax nor soothing resolution—
I am trying to get to the bottom of this,
I am trying to get on top of the matter,
but I suppose I’ll have to just add more to the middle,
and hope that this is good enough for now–
A cacophony
of hasty typing
and printer beeps
becomes my white noise
for the afternoon
Nestled between
the periodicals
and the desktops
I sit and pretend
that I am studying
Opting instead to
become a voyeur
in the lives of those
who surround me
If things in my house
could speak
I’ve noticed
that the same things
that used to
bring joy,
evoke fun
spark astonishment for art and beauty
make me marvel at human invention
and trigger humming
…these things now glare back at me
with demands:
dust me, polish me!
handle me with care
put me on display
invite people over to see me
show me off…look at me….
They ask…why have you ignored me?
I am thinking my house has become
a very noisy place.
Perhaps the most noisy ones
are really asking to go somewhere else…
I am liking that idea.
To ignore or not to ignore—that is the question.
If I were a NASA telescope,
the new capacities to see
light beyond the event horizon
makes me focus on new sources
of joys, fun, and astonishment
not dependent upon the things
behind my house key
It will still be hard to decide
which things stay
and which will go.
At the bottom of my yard are three pines
of varying statures, the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.
I stare at them as breezes caress my cheeks,
birds sing of hope as I remember lost loved ones.
First my father, brother, mother, brother, husband
and sister, each new grief compounded by the previous.
The three pines instill hope that they are at peace
and united again looking down with love.
Without pause,
the collie shepherd nudges
the front paw of the boy cat.
He growls,
then leaps into a saunter
toward the basement
of my kitchen table.
Now, the mutt leans
against the window,
breathing heavily.
She is thirsty,
drool gathered
around her blue ball,
but not hungry.
Her eyes, this morning,
have not made the journey
from bowl to me.
She is cool,
and I am casual
about her placement.
The livingness in her movement
plucks my exhale.
These days, I am stagnant
without the cause
for breath.
fireflies are out
blink-beckoning
cool air rises from the creek bed
feel it twine around your workday ankles
sherbet sky darkens to naviest blue
Venus sends her greetings
June night unfolds
all frog song and honeysuckle and starshine
come with
Refusing to forgive is like drinking poison and expecting someone else to die
but what if he does die, maybe just this once, isn’t it worth it to keep trying?
You can’t let it stick to you, gotta let it roll like water off a duck’s back
but what if I’m less duck-back and more soil or swamp and I’m supposed to hold water?
You are what you eat
but what does that make me if all I’ve ever swallowed has made me into hunger?
Honor thy father
no, not until he honors me back
