that's mrs. mediocrity to you

i am the leaves
that skitter on pavement
touching toe and ankle
bare and boot
and you don’t listen
to the crackle of my skin
or bear witness
to the whisper
of my decay

i feed you anyway

i am the crow
robbing blue eggs
black circling sound
from the ring
on the right-hand finger
of fortune
and you
cannot reach
the beak that bites you

i feed you anyway

i am the seeds
buried ripe beneath rows
cold arrows of root
reaching deep
through tall darkness
as you nibble buds
in the light drowning rain
of hypocrisy’s
overdrawn bloom

i feed you anyway

…

i’ve burned through all the memories

walked through fire
sifted ash

blackened fingers drawing hieroglyphs
to guide me through the grief that buries living

i light candles at dawn and bonfires at dusk
build a fortress of flame
and sleep on embers

i’ve been phoenix so many times
my house is strewn with feathers
(ankle-deep and sharp as quills)

i’ve put you out and opened windows
always feeding the desire to breathe
(which i think is the same as freedom)

i remember the night i woke in terror at the blanket of smoke swirling over my bed
i remember the way i laughed later, when it turned out to be a dream
i remember the way it still feels entirely exactly undeniably

real

truth always finds a way to be revealed

and here we are
again
endings and beginnings
blooming full
in the light of forgotten

darkness is the edge
our eye is drawn to
bleakblank horizon
lined with trees
and trepidation

the air filled
with hope’s perfume
as if anyone could hold
the scent
of silence

on a morning
carved by will
and blind resilience
into something
resembling peace

or patterned joy
dancing shadows
on the wall
of blanket rhyme
and repetition

. . .

planting a seed
is the purest form of hope
gathering bits
of wither and dry
just to bury them again
in deep dark places

this is also magic
or miracle
witchever you prefer

a garden never fails

to ground you

embrace you

in its heartless
beautiful mess

if you listen
roots are always
whispering

history and herstory
running deep beneath hard beds
of mud and promise
sun and storm
harsh wind and captured
lightning

and you
determine

nothing

watch time float by
on the whisper of living

breathe in blue sky
and never exhale

light the candle
of forgiveness
and forget to blow it out

speak the song
of the silenced
or rather, start to sing

watch a heron
kiss the water
in a solitude of sunshine

stand taller
than the mountain
you just climbed

ride the train of broken tears
that barrels down
each side

embrace the clouds
that hover close
to the places you last cried

.

give it all away

.

and watch time

float by

on the whisper

of living

…

the avenue where
you ate the last fish

as it held your lost stare
(contemplation’s false glare)

and the dark apple
current
pulling luck under

in the back row seat
of certainty’s corner

we fed our fill
on the silence of empty

and burnished long scars
still shiny with memory

until sky led to sea
in the bed that was always
losing its way

we reached for warm hands
over-stuffed
with the blind weight
of grief

grasping for sand

as it spilled down
clean sheets

and returned to the water

salt bled us

…

eating nothing

but these hours

that devour

and the

black hole distance

between full

and fortified

in the night sky

lost eye

feast

of raw

subsistence

…

scarred scared and disrepaired
the tagline of last soldiers
loss holders
heart boulders

we are the collection
of collectors
gathering bones and
burying stones

building cairns
in bare memory
corners

and backing away
ever so gently
despite the premise promise
of tumble
and tremor

. . .

and deep dark
late night lists
of the ways we are all
just a little bit
broken

and the revelation
that all we can do
is open our arms
our minds
our fear closed
scared scarred
sacred
hearts

and face the sun

one more time
one more day
one more moment

today
today

today
and love

that’s
all there is

ever

not forever

just this
minefield mountain
of now

the present
of presence

and these shard blue
sheltering smithereens
of moving sky

…

…

like the gathering jay
landing indigo dark
at this goodbye leaves fly sky

waving summer’s
last muleta

…

and this hollow black horizon
fielding landings
for cold flight frenzy bright geese

holding court
in a flurry of age

…

and you treading merlin’s tall night
through a landmine
of lost forest season

no frame can contain
or define

…

and the brink of soft light
through these brittle bone trees
of tender sight not quite description

guiding current the truest
way home

…

listen here