that's mrs. mediocrity to you

is buried in alaska

i know this because
you told me once
sitting on a square picnic table
beneath a dry dark sky
lit with acid green borealis

cassiopeia and orion
the only witness
to a wedding meant
for other people
another time, another place
blah, blah, blah
you get the picture

just a far off
long gone
atmospheric memory
rippling light and music
to lovers in a land
we’d only dreamt of

we watched in silence
for hours
those hours,
cradling minutes,
the quiet,
bone cold
seeping up
through cheap
cracked boots
and hol(e)y
handmade
mittens

with all these unwrapped gifts knocking at my ankles
and the color of contentment dripping down walls

there are words for almost everything
in the center of the room
but in each corner
it’s all dust and whispers
poised to destroy and bent on feeding

there is doubt in a vase
shedding sheer pink petals
and avarice growing roots
along white baseboard

the light is full, and golden
drawing pictures that pretend and
puncture actuality

as my fingers grow gnarled on a keyboard of instruction
poised for promises and platitude
never rendered

outside, the wind is howling
and still,
i am yours

.

.

.

seventeen years later
that’s what we call it

not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven

two words

three digits

two towers

four planes

thousands

of

mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends

not statistics

falling

from

the

sky

not dates
or where were you’s

just whole hearts
in odd numbers

each one

the only necessary

evidence

of love

::

.

.

I wrote this for the 10-year anniversary
of this tragic, horrid event.

I am re-posting it again today, in honor of all those hearts.

Never forget.

.

there will always be days
stretched tight
by the too dry skin
of living

there will always
be evil
rubbing shoulders
with light

always be witches
dancing circles
at night

always a cloud
blotting out
the gold sun

always loss and possibility
mixing chance
in roiling ocean

it doesn’t have
to be enough

or even
filling

warmth is the illusion
of life

parody is pure
in the blossom of sight

and green things grow
from the cracks
in black ice

.

.

.

suddenly
there is all this color
all this light
shining green through
blue glass
and
it seems absurd
to think winter
equals hibernation
but i awaken
and there it is
a new year
that did not exist
yesterday

.

.

.

the world we sit in
and the world we live in
have become
two different things

by now
fifteen minutes
is the measure
of antipathy
and data
the construct
of worth

observation
has replaced
interaction

i see you
you see me

we do not touch

i know one thing
about you

you know
three things
about me

it all adds up

we can’t
catch up

.

.

.

busy
and the days grab me away
from the paying attention
to that color, that lilt,
that perfect light

one breath

one moment

take it in

notice

this is what matters

this one fleeting second
of pure, silent beauty

remember

.

.

.

clinging hard to the dance of dawn, delayed

and you can lie
belly up to the cold grey sky
letting go of all fear
til the hawk comes tapping
on one shoulder

nothing between us,
no shield,
no field,
nothing filling the corners
with debris

just these bold
reflection curves
and mist-mirrored
smiles

holding court
in a forest
of fancy

.

.

.

you sing me songs of february summer
and i laugh at the absurdity
because
nothing makes sense anymore
and everything

is a tune
from those long ago years
when we believed
in certainty

still
i smile and i dance
at words
spilled from
wist and sunshine

so ripe with yesterday’s
short season of naiveté

when we were young
and you were golden
and i
was just a rose

.

.

.

it’s so easy to focus on the flaws.

easy to miss the forest for the trees when you want to keep standing in the shade.

the big picture contains so much information, when all i want is this leaf or that berry or maybe even a thorn.

a pair of cardinals live in the yard just now, young it seems, and foolish, often landing just feet away from NaughtyKitten. I want to warn them, run at them arms high and voiced raised to scare them off for good. but i like having them here, listening to their incessant chirp, and i like that they land just outside the door. perhaps i admire their optimism.

but inside me, a little voice keeps saying do something, as if i’m the one in charge, as if it’s all up to me, as if i can fix the situation.

it rained last night for the first time in months. at least any sort of rain that meant anything, we’ve had a few sprinkles here and there, but this was thunder and lightning and a brief downpour, which is better than no downpour at all. no matter that it meant i got no sleep.

this morning the humidity stands tall in the yard, and i wonder if the flowers revel in the sauna, or if it just makes them feel tired and lazy, too.

i smell the pepper of phlox and marvel that the plant is still there, just outside my window, despite the fact that i’ve planned to dig it up for years. i have no desire to count how many.

the circus has come to america’s backyard, but no one knows who is selling the tickets.

i wonder if the babies will survive.

i wonder if those cardinals and the cat have made a pact.

i wonder if i’m crazy for thinking these things.

a small airplane makes itself known overhead, disturbing the stillness.

i wonder what’s it’s like to fly so high.

.

.

.