that's mrs. mediocrity to you

i listened for so long i went silent

mute as a river drinking dawn in the forest
mute as a sky bright with stories of stars
mute as a heart bleeding love like a wound

there are no words for any of this
no lexicon
for racing blindly through the darkness of reality
hawking bliss and deprivation in quiet turn

i am echo
singing jagged edge
across each mountain

you are breath
and something
less tangible

or everything

it’s all there
ramshackle and ready
prepared

but we’ve forgotten
history
her story
our collective
mind

i walk this path
i have traveled
too often

watch two bluebirds
savor sunshine
just the way March requires

i remember you there
on my windowsill
all magic and tragedy

survival
so often depends
on kindness

i say nothing

. . . . .

. . . . .

i let the dog out
and the moon was singing

down at the swamp
one thousand geese
honked the words
to a universal melody

polaris twinkled

guiding each of us

home

.

.

.

a giggle escapes
through the space
between
clouds

blue sky
bleeding
promises

and you
in the corner

throwing choices
at cracked white walls

always looking
for the one
that will stick

i hear an ocean of epitaph
singeing torn curtains

a whale on the roof
leaking tears
into gutter

grey gull
limping flight
through white waves of sand

a bead of laughter
rises up
beneath the surface

breaking skin and
creeping starfish
that will die
of too much sun

and the ball
rolling back in my
direction

comes to rest
at the edge
of false fealty

cliff hanger hopeful
and harpy sated

siren

marking grid
on fields of silent

glittered gauze

i once
built a moon
on a red wall of chapter
singing verse and pressing mortar
into cracks and desperation

all scrabble fingered
and blister burned

pasting love and scraps of
survival
over lies and offered
fiction

all the while pretty singing

this is the light
we eat by

this is the light
i worship at night

this is the light
i fly to

burning wing and hemmed
betrayals

my own false idol
swinging from a string
in the blackest corner
of orion’s night

.

.

.

digging deep through poisoned soil
seeking hope or refuge or both
and the flower opens
and we think pretty
but it’s all
just a matter
of survival

“this is not really happening—
you bet your life it is”*

hang your head
nod hello
run
stand your ground

i can’t remember

i can’t remember

your name
is
silence
or alice
or delilah

i can’t remember

and all you ever wanted
was bloom

.

.

.

(*from Tori Amos’ Cornflake Girl)

the way a tree holds up time for everyone to see

.

i ran on the side of the road to a place i can’t get back to

a stranger asked if i was lost

and i wondered how he knew

.

peace is always an illusion when the default is chaos

.

the red-winged blackbird wears his heart on his sleeve

and i follow his lead

.

regret is the stepping stone of forward

.

crooked is the path that gets you there

.

.

.

.

at the root of existence

we choose to grow and then

wither

bend and bow

curve and carry

reach and

reminisce

.

at night the bloom closes
protecting center from darkness
and fragile from star

.

days run together

with the laughter of sympathy

.

what we’ve learned

earned

burned

is eternally

shed

.

.

.

.

in a world of too much and

never enough

and tiny lives

bleeding hearts

doors that open

before they close

window views and

widow’s walks

and the quiet violence

of bloom

.

.

.

on the quiet colors
of a cold grey sad day morning
.
the scent of winter
crisp and silent
creeping up behind me

.

.

.

.

.

i search for beauty in the bones of every skeleton

architecture is the art of building frames

i thought i was a writer once, then i became human

the sky is a cage built for starlings

i am the ghost of my grandmother, re-contrived

.

all the leaves have fallen now and the wind has moved on

we stand naked in the weak winter sunshine,

refusing the invitation to bend

.

.

.

.