all war

all war
buries children
in an earthen wound

i put my full
weight into
my conviction:

the wound is a hungry
mouth, and
all war is gluttony

Protest / Protect

shout a little bit louder for those six feet underground whose choices we still carry out in lockstep motion

shout a little bit louder for those whose crimes are whispered, typed on smartphones, arrangements made for years to come

shout a little bit louder for the mothers in minivans and fathers at football practice parking lots

make your voice deafening, make your wishes for freedom as loud as your voice will carry, the weight of it heavy with promise of a new day

Terrorist

"I'm not mad at you," I say
as you pull a gun on me.
"Fucking bitch," you say
as I die in the street.
This is the difference
between me and you.

how it comes so suddenly;
how it startles the heart;
how each one reminds you
of previous encounters,
holding the small of her back
as she heaves, the trial
breaking in sobs, dashes
and gut punches;
how it never resolves;
how it cradles every breath
when a memory inspires you;
how it is so final, so total,
so honest that you hate it
but understand it;
how it feels like a beginning
as well as an end,
a sentence with a period,
but closure only for a few words
and not the end of the book;
how sentimental and clichéd
it makes us all in the face of it
and how we all face it,
the chilling wind of it,
the brittleness of it:
Death.

horrors

to my horror
you have gone and left
whispers and petals
in tidy, little piles
for me to find years later,
when the ash of you
has become dirt,
and my voice, just an instrument
for your stories

Floating

the only thing that sounds good is sleep-- like waves crashing on my pillow, blocking out any other noise from my life. I can look forward to a different world, a different scene when sleep overtakes me-- there's nothing bigger or better. And the whole cast is there, waiting for me, and I can hug each one and pretend they still exist without melting into sugary puddles in my hands.

Toledo > Bucyrus

When she was mighty, arms outstretched acrossed the Maumee, I thought I knew her well--but I was broke and smartmouthed and failing part time and living out of a PT Cruiser full time. At least it was brief, before it got cold. And a friend saved me. Her arms, too, were outstretched, and she quoted the mantra, "You will do better in Toledo." My smartmouth was chapped and thirsty but words came easily then. Gratitude, too. I floated down the river--down down down to my hometown. That was before my father died, before every flower in my heart crackled and blew away. Arms were closed, then, around the Sandusky. And I didn't hear any more words. No thank-you notes floated down the river, just debris, ripped receipts, old magazines. My dad might hum something while cleaning up after other people's mistakes. But that was all.

Nebuchadnezzar

There, he stood—the golden head of an empire
that stretched across the horizon,
with the rivers of Babylon winding
between the fingers
of his iron fist.
His stone statue
made with many hands,
drew awe and jealousy.

But he could not understand
the day he found the statue crumbling,
its limbs turning to dust
before the many who adored him—
until Daniel spoke,
a captive voice,
the prophet of another kingdom.

And the king,
with all his gold and power,
saw only what he feared—
his reign becoming a fleeting spark
in the dark abyss of time.

He ordered his likeness, a new statue
of gold to be worshiped,
but the furnace blazed hotter
for those who refused to bow—
three men, unyielding, unafraid to burn—
their Faith the only fire
that did not consume them.

His pride could not be quenched by flames.
The king wandered,
cursed by his own greatness,
eating grass like cattle,
his mind lost to madness
as his empire,
so sure, so vast,
shuddered beneath
the weight of the Heavens.

One day, he and his followers realized
their error, their idolatry,
their betrayal of humanity—
a lesson, not a fable.

Saved Voicemail, 12/25/2020

One day, your voice
won't speak to me anymore.
I'll forget what it sounds like,

like those notes that trail
at the end of conversations,
crackle and pop on the line,

like little snow flurries
on Christmas night,
when the house is quiet again

and you're sad it's over.

A Meditation, After Putting Cleo to Sleep

For Mom

some equate smallness
with insignificance,
as if worth isn't just
a matter of vantage point--
perspective, time, and a little luck
held like a fragile package
so delicate
in one's line of sight.

as her tiny heart slowed, then stopped,
I thought about how loved she was,
so thoroughly,
with Dad's gentle voice
and nicknames
imbued with meaning and love,
with his large, callused hands
stroking her fur,
nape to tail,

and how his line of sight
would only blur when
suddenly flooded--
when suddenly taxed--
or overcome with grief
for the small creatures
he had loved and lost
so many, many times, and
I think of this, today,
with this little creature,
old and yet still a kitten,
her purrs slowing down.

our breaths are small
but imbued with meaning and love,
and so are our choices,
like when we ask someone else
to take away our pain
when we are ill-equipped
to do so ourselves.
and with perspective, time,
and a little luck,
we can learn to forgive ourselves
and know--
hands losing purchase, every day--

we're doing the best we can.

Just Before

It sounds like playing the same song over and over, thinking about the weeks leading up to losing you: death occurs after the limbo, but before we can hear your voice again.

I am still falling into the fleshy womb of fear, its warmth separating me from time, and you are not here.

It sounds like leaves crushing into dust, thinking about the minutes leading up to losing you: a strange place, fading before we can find you again.

On neurodivergence

She said, "you can only hold
one thought in your head at a time,"
like a small bird
that falls out of a nest--
delicate, its breaths urgent.

But as she is stating this "fact,"
I do not think that she is correct,
as each of my thoughts
darts
fully formed,
flashes of hummingbirds each time,

and each time, that sharp
little flutter
frightens me
when I mistake it for something else,

then it transforms
and finds a friend to fly with it,
each bird defying what makes sense--

just like each thought begets another--
related, but not always--to tag along.

Pompeii

before the river of fire 

swept across the lands, 

flames fell from the sky, 

and we took 

to each other's arms 

for shelter.

in confusion, we wept,

our hot tears leaving 

deep valleys 

in sloughs of skin.

this is a lesson we cannot tell you.

it has to be shown.

we exist to care for one another. 

it is written in our bones, held 

in our graves as testimony:

large skull, small skull, no flesh--

a mother's long limbs, fingers, 

hold close her child, whose tiny frame

is forever five years old--

whose mother so loved him 

that her last remaining instinct

was to protect him

from elements beyond her control.

it is futile; it is terrible.

it has to be shown.

The American Trauma

It's the same reason
the attic isn't decorated,
or why guided tours
of sausage factories
do not exist.
We hide truths.
We store them
not just in metaphors,
in figures of speech,
but in muscle fibers,
in blood,
until the resentment
isn't just some burden
but a punishment
in waiting,
curlers wound
a little too tightly
to the scalp,
invoices folded
into little sharp thirds
before they go off in the mail.
This is how the truth is inherited,
one small bundle
passed down
then passed again
until bones
are wittled into nothing
and daughters are left
missing their fathers.

a place that I can't get to

In a room, all I feel
is the cold that you left.
Through the air, all I see
is your face full of blame.
What's left to see?
What's there to see?
...A place that I can't get to.

Red House Painters, "Song for a Blue Guitar"

Who am I but
an impermanent object
shrinking
into something
I don't recognize,
dreaming of a place that
I can't get to,
where every grain of an idea,
every morsel of
a tedious ritual
seems like a waste of time
because you aren't there?

rest

with the same voice,
you would coo at small animals
and comfort your adult children.

with the same eyes,
though colorblind,
you would sort laundry
and choose school outfits.

with the same hands,
you would tidy Grandma's grass and trees
and bury beloved pets
when they passed from this realm into the next,

leaving their vessels behind
for you to carefully grieve,

for you to lay their empty limbs down and rest
as comfortably as possible.

with my soul, with my heart,
I hope you can know
I am so thankful.

rest, dad.

The true quiet

For Dad

How fortunate to have each day
with you, beyond the artificial quiet
of this room, full of gentle beeps
and yellow lights, shining gems
of unknown information.
How fortunate to have each day
of choices for you, gifted hands taking
wires and tubes and delicate machines
blessing you with comfort.
But how selfishly, forcefully I have behaved,
taking the hands of father time into my own--
Why now, and why him? I ask.
The helper, the seeker
who couldn't help himself,
still seeking purpose for himself,
still needing to love himself--
Why?
I know there are no answers.
With the time that is left, I am here,
we are here, anticipating
the true quiet, and loving you--
how fortunate.

their heart a balloon

how much space can a single person take up, a single person,

their heart a balloon, filling more with air than blood,

and the vessel lifts them up 

past themselves, past what matters, and the space taken up becomes infinite,

without apology

wrong god

The brightest screen is replacing the sky today, and the dangers behind it are hidden in wires. 

"You will get your money," she said, her voice, fractal, a prism, the smallest wave or beam...

..."just let me see the tangle of wires."

And just like that, the father slit her throat, her blood shining and sparkling, a currency of stars.

She saw nothing but the blur narrowing as she realized she put her trust in the wrong god.

Needed

Revisiting the worst in us goes beyond a short trial period. It has to uproot the dried and damaged, for they died of thirst, and you were too late to properly tend to them.

Let's reflect on this tangible fact for a moment, as the roots turn to dust in your palms -- just who do you think you are, exactly?

And do you know anything about nurturing these children?

Because you wear the gloves and overalls. You wear the straw hat. You even brought the proper canteen. 

But you left your other tools at home. Your boots are clean and new. And your eyes track the movement of the sun in the sky a bit too eagerly.

You don't want to take your time. You want to hurry up, and get out of here.

Revisiting the worst in us is tedious and grueling. It isn't for the weak. Confess your crimes to the seedlings, and pretend you know something, anything, about nurturing these children.

Because you're needed.