i broke the last egg
as you gathered
berries
it wasn’t breakfast
we were hunting
sideways and
loop-edged
in the miracle
of kitchen
crumb-crunch on the floor
fresh bread
daily broken
the sound so much less
than silence
scriff-scruff
and ground level
eyes never met
through a limerick
of dance
you were always so bawdy
and i was the pattern
true pitch
ticking time
to your song
of burnt flesh,
soft toast,
crooked finger
and
the beauty of brittle
the freedom of
letting go
holding hands with life’s sadness
old loves on a corner
with no place to meet
the silence of soliloquy
or the tree
that falls
to tell its own story
setting seed
also known as
forgiveness
…
windows
wide open
for a moment
of fresh
inhale
exhale
bounce off
horizon
bird song dawn
and sunset singing
we’re all here
spreading green
it’s all new
all old
the same
same
circle
always here
lending
a hand
…
yesterday i saw
just floating along
on this river of tall information
a tiny white scrap
inscribed with the words:
survival isn’t enough
a meme or a tweet or a post by a host
dropped by someone post-haste in the knowing
as with so many lines caught deep in the waves
of this infinite brick-brackish water
and i smiled to myself
just a flash
before thinking
oh child just you wait
because darling
survival
is
plenty
and yes
there is always much more
we can do with its gift
more to learn
more to love
more to cherish
but oh, my friend
in the color of end
survival
is quite simply
being
watching the way you peeled an onion
hiding tears in a scented candle
rose-sandlewood-something when really
it was the smell of smoke you hoped to hide
long after you’d quit and we both knew
it was him again
lingering in places you’d already scoured
as i peeled carrots, chopped celery, sliced
a moon down the side of one finger
before either of us noticed it was raining
and you were gone
the world is on fire
stop what you’re doing
no
stop
nothing is fair and the sky is lit
broken
stop
listening
smiling dancing and buying
stop building hiding
breathing
complaining
stop spinning
stop spilling
stop drilling
for rain
i’m an ocean of echo
on the tilt-shift of dragon
i am gold and philosophy
still and bespoken
i am school with no student
blinded by billow
i’m the cloud of refrain
in a field of forgotten
stop
clumsy and violent
in our destruction
carnivore
herbivore
sure-footed-thunder
bearing down
on no future
the world is burning (turning)
turning (burning)
bleak mornings
endless nights
fear stirred by anxiety’s spear
searching for hope
in a world
already scarred
(scared)
i have a pebble
to offer
worthless
polished
smooth
by worry
set high on a shelf
worn
whole
silent
waiting
.
.
.
and now they say it’s not that bad, the sky isn’t
falling and here we are, bits of blue in our hair,
trapped in the rat-maze tracks we’ve worn in the
carpet, no longer even trying to get out.
and now they say sorry, so sorry, sorry, not sorry
and no one knows who cares, doesn’t care,
can’t care, wouldn’t care, cares too much,
has gone mad with the caring, can’t find
a damn thing to care about.
and now the sky is blue but it’s always raining and
the basement’s flooding, water seeping in around
the edges, no one sees if we close the door, ignore
the smell, carry on with dinner and distraction and
pretend people aren’t dying in a dark spreading puddle
of sour statistic.
and now. the question that only ever has one
answer, the damned unprepared living of it all,
smiling when the sun hits your face for one brief
silent moment, aching for life, alive love
laughter landing, burning through the
empty stare of days.
and now.
…
i think about words and the way we use them
sometimes as weapons
sometimes as shields
sometimes to unite
sometimes to divide
i think about unjustness and all the times
i fought the status quo
all the times
people around me rolled their eyes
because i wouldn’t stop couldn’t stop didn’t stop
saying
this is wrong
this is wrong
this is wrong
and now i’m silent
perhaps i’m listening
or exhausted
or a little bit broken
or thinking about the times
when i said
nothing
i rage inside but the words hesitate
just
on the edge
of my crone woman
tongue
as if gathered in their own lone protest
we will not go into the world for you
no one’s listening
it will not make a difference
no one’s listening
all the words have been spoken
no one’s listening
and besides
you must act
you must act
you must act
perhaps this is why
i can’t sit still
or hear my own heart beating
marching alone
through miles of anger
getting nowhere
soaked through with
cold hard injustice
pounding down around me
stepping over puddles
filled with lies
.
color
(in darkness)
is the shape
of your breath
(tangerine)
or the whisper
that scratches blue
out of black
and the middle
(which never falls
dead center)
the way the moon
wakes me up
with sharp raps
on my window
or silence
embarrassed
by its own
soliloquy
.
. . . . .
.
