I no longer hear
from your friends,
all flat
in black and gray.
I've made peace
with their absence,
but not with yours.
maybe one day
we can talk about it.
until then, outlines and stains,
shadows of our potential chats,
clump in the bottom
of my tea cup.
fools suck it up,
but you sucked it up.
maybe hiding was a bad idea.
you believe in heaven,
so that is where
I will find you.
16 September 2020
09 September 2020
blue light
that soft blue light
has a way of creeping
where it shouldn't.
and the click and punch
of the typewriter
has a way of hypnotizing
when it shouldn't.
it's almost as if
you are speaking to me
from the next room,
but you are not here.
it's almost as if
the blue light knows
whom to summon,
whom to follow
when inspiration calls.
uneven spaces, blue
in the cracks,
try to ease my hand,
ease my worry,
but no softness
has enough force
to hit the keys,
and I am left with
your whispers,
your shadows
where they shouldn't
appear.
28 August 2020
Unforgiving
the shape of grief?
there is no shape.
there is no road,
only interruptions
of quicksand.
there is no destination
only scattered paths
leading nowhere.
the shape of grief?
it's sand in the lungs.
it's sand in the eyes.
it takes the shape
of any open space,
unforgiving.
there is no shape.
there is no road,
only interruptions
of quicksand.
there is no destination
only scattered paths
leading nowhere.
the shape of grief?
it's sand in the lungs.
it's sand in the eyes.
it takes the shape
of any open space,
unforgiving.
24 August 2020
02 August 2020
Indebted
I don't wish I were dead
even when I feel buried alive,
small rocks of grief in my mouth.
I don't wish I were dead.
I can't remember the last time I was awake,
a comb scratching the surface of my head,
wrestling tangles and knots so that
I can look OK, so that I can look
presentable when someone confides in me
only to forget to ask if I'm alright.
But no, I don't wish I were dead.
Just another person's wallet
would be emptied, then;
as if I never borrow.
As if I always borrow,
feathers for blood,
an endless well that goes
all the way down but fails to echo.
I don't wish I were dead,
but I keep having dreams
about the dead, bubbling in my ear,
fresh water myths rushing
so much I cannot hear my thoughts.
The dreams are always about it being a farce,
a prank, that she is gone.
"Who told you that?" She'd explain, exasperated,
and I would wake up, thinking I'd been lied to,
a penny bouncing off the wall of the deepest well.
I can't remember the last time I was awake,
floating in the water, feathers shiny,
emerging from a bloody wound.
When the light hits the back of her eyes
she'll know that she has been found.
Why would I ever wish I were dead
even when the mind is a trap?
even when I feel buried alive,
small rocks of grief in my mouth.
I don't wish I were dead.
I can't remember the last time I was awake,
a comb scratching the surface of my head,
wrestling tangles and knots so that
I can look OK, so that I can look
presentable when someone confides in me
only to forget to ask if I'm alright.
But no, I don't wish I were dead.
Just another person's wallet
would be emptied, then;
as if I never borrow.
As if I always borrow,
feathers for blood,
an endless well that goes
all the way down but fails to echo.
I don't wish I were dead,
but I keep having dreams
about the dead, bubbling in my ear,
fresh water myths rushing
so much I cannot hear my thoughts.
The dreams are always about it being a farce,
a prank, that she is gone.
"Who told you that?" She'd explain, exasperated,
and I would wake up, thinking I'd been lied to,
a penny bouncing off the wall of the deepest well.
I can't remember the last time I was awake,
floating in the water, feathers shiny,
emerging from a bloody wound.
When the light hits the back of her eyes
she'll know that she has been found.
Why would I ever wish I were dead
even when the mind is a trap?
22 May 2020
Two Weeks
Grief is the worst type of heartbreak--
there is no promise of spring,
just leaves crumbled into dust.
And the days move ever forward.
And I feel left behind.
And I am looking for you,
listening for your voice--
but you are dust.
Death is the ultimate promise.
It is the worst type of promise.
there is no promise of spring,
just leaves crumbled into dust.
And the days move ever forward.
And I feel left behind.
And I am looking for you,
listening for your voice--
but you are dust.
Death is the ultimate promise.
It is the worst type of promise.
17 May 2020
May 8
There are not enough artifacts
nor trinkets
nor letters written
nor rough maps drawn
blue ink
cursive
a "T" forgotten,
uncrossed
There is not enough time
hands ticking
coming closer together
three or four clocks, at least,
I count
while sitting
where you last rested
Somewhere, I will find
your memory boxes,
your address books,
your yellow legal pads
Somewhere, I will find
your bookmarked Bibles
with tear-stained pages,
your 91st Psalm
But today, nothing I will find
will be enough
I am selfish
I want soft arms
I want more than
recordings
to save and replay...
"He is risen--he is risen indeed!"
I want your songs
your hums
your interruptions
your "not only that"s
I knew this day would come
but seeing you
in robin's egg blue
head tilted
as if napping
I was not ready
I guess we never are
Whose stories
will ring in my ears
now?
Whose loud, persistent voice?
All the time in the world
still wouldn't be enough
with you--
big brown eyes
now closed
I can ask why you left
and if you'll be back
but these questions
are for children
I am so small
facing vast darkness
"But the light returns,"
I can hear you say
"Everything will be okay
I promise"
nor trinkets
nor letters written
nor rough maps drawn
blue ink
cursive
a "T" forgotten,
uncrossed
There is not enough time
hands ticking
coming closer together
three or four clocks, at least,
I count
while sitting
where you last rested
Somewhere, I will find
your memory boxes,
your address books,
your yellow legal pads
Somewhere, I will find
your bookmarked Bibles
with tear-stained pages,
your 91st Psalm
But today, nothing I will find
will be enough
I am selfish
I want soft arms
I want more than
recordings
to save and replay...
"He is risen--he is risen indeed!"
I want your songs
your hums
your interruptions
your "not only that"s
I knew this day would come
but seeing you
in robin's egg blue
head tilted
as if napping
I was not ready
I guess we never are
Whose stories
will ring in my ears
now?
Whose loud, persistent voice?
All the time in the world
still wouldn't be enough
with you--
big brown eyes
now closed
I can ask why you left
and if you'll be back
but these questions
are for children
I am so small
facing vast darkness
"But the light returns,"
I can hear you say
"Everything will be okay
I promise"
01 May 2020
Power
My vote
is a Molotov cocktail
thrown at your sneering,
sweaty face.
How dare you;
like you are entitled
to my trust.
This flaming liquid,
these glass knives
jab your throat.
They are all
you are entitled to,
motherfucker.
Yell then, won't you.
Maybe someone
will cover your mouth,
too,
when you scream.
is a Molotov cocktail
thrown at your sneering,
sweaty face.
How dare you;
like you are entitled
to my trust.
This flaming liquid,
these glass knives
jab your throat.
They are all
you are entitled to,
motherfucker.
Yell then, won't you.
Maybe someone
will cover your mouth,
too,
when you scream.
31 March 2020
Sacrifice
Speaking with
a dead man's voice--
anonymous,
cooling embers,
feeling
each individual tooth
crumble
into dust--
when is too late?
Does it matter?
You take a stick,
swirl the ash.
It's not just
one person here.
There are many.
When each throat
cracked, the yolk
of mucus breaking,
did you give a damn?
When will you learn
that coins
are always cold.
a dead man's voice--
anonymous,
cooling embers,
feeling
each individual tooth
crumble
into dust--
when is too late?
Does it matter?
You take a stick,
swirl the ash.
It's not just
one person here.
There are many.
When each throat
cracked, the yolk
of mucus breaking,
did you give a damn?
When will you learn
that coins
are always cold.
21 February 2020
For Dean
Water lilies...
Even the eyes,
far away and knowing,
smile delicately,
Lotuses...
when the blue arrives
to carry him away--
a wise young "he,"
tucked into his bed.
Orchids...
Take a small curl
for a keepsake.
Remember the folds
of the petals--
his favorite flowers
Roses...
that he wants so much
to show you.
Listen for the gentle laugh
on the breeze,
and decide, then,
to follow it.
Even the eyes,
far away and knowing,
smile delicately,
Lotuses...
when the blue arrives
to carry him away--
a wise young "he,"
tucked into his bed.
Orchids...
Take a small curl
for a keepsake.
Remember the folds
of the petals--
his favorite flowers
Roses...
that he wants so much
to show you.
Listen for the gentle laugh
on the breeze,
and decide, then,
to follow it.
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