.
.
and we laughed
at the eternity
of sunsets
happy to be alive
and married
to our own vision
of mystery
the future
wrapped up
in wire-edged
gold mesh
ribbon
a gift
we will
never quite
open
.
. . . . .
.
.
frayed
if i had a word to sing
i would hold you
accountable
pronounce you
intractable
whisper false
accents
trace a clef
on a wrist
or a sixteenth
elsewhere
in a dissonant
concordant
letter
.
. . . . .
.
.
i bought a tree once
and it’s still
sitting in my garden
still
in the same black nursery pot
stunted and hungry, yes
but still alive
i’ve lost track
of how many years
it’s been
and yes
i’m embarrassed and
ashamed and
guilty
(life gets away from you
sometimes)
but i must admit
i admire
the refusal
to die
.
. . . . .
.
.
on learning to breathe
(again)
nothing is ever forgotten
but rather, buried
one day you will decide to clean
and sweep aside a leaf
and there it will be:
the empty bowl
of everything
.
. . . . .
.
.
the way irony has
no sense of humor
and still we carry on with living
even in the midst of chaos
step outside to song of robin
filtered through
cacophony
ten million geese
(from the sound of it)
fill the air
with riot
a crazy quilt of noise
blankets silence
as earth grows warm and roots
spread fingers
seeking growth
in the darkest
of places
.
. . . . .
.
.
if hemingway had wings
i think a lot about
the difference
between
art and artist
words and author
music and composer
one is immortal, one is not
one is ethereal, one is human
one is creation, one is destruction
i always stop
there
.
. . . . .
.
.
standing in the mud
of apprehension
holding my breath
birthing my fear
inhaling
flame
.
. . . . .
.
.
diligence and derelict
history is a faulty course
in humanity
we miss all the silence
the bone-crunching weight
of existence
the bleeding fingers of daily toil
and end up with highlights
reeled and presented
in a package wrapped in bias
much the way
we present ourselves today
in this new realm
of me-story
where you cannot believe
what you see
.
. . . . .
