.
.
a poem, designed
all the things i’m sorry for
can’t be written
in the confines
of a page
i have a fibonacci spiral
the outline
of a staircase
this never-happened
maze
of fallen dream
two columns
of regret
(one wider than the other)
surrounded by white space
a round-edged photo
of background noise
and over to one side
an arrow
pointing
next
.
.
.
.
. . . . .
.
.
the day we (almost) died
was a day like any other
filled with
silences and bitter trope
a tiny bit
of fervent laughter
tea and whiskey
one small kiss in the crease
of a neck
sustenance and sugar
mirrors and spice.
.
. . . . .
.
.
a tiny map of luminescence
written on a
parchment paper life
and carried
home
.
. . . . .
.
there is all this space
built into walls
edging out corners
rippling on this ocean
of floor
.
.
.
on a wall
standing tall
for no reason
narcissus and woodpecker
posing as imprinted
impermanent
tattoo
listen
.
.
.
morning mirror and happenstance
pulling hope down at the corners
of a month meant for introspection
snow blows sideways against a window
curtained
a sparrow fights for survival
everyone, everywhere
arguing about books
and this is silence
holding tight
to a morning
short on light
showing up
as always
never quite
arriving
.
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
.
.
.
is a burden best discarded
.
i remember when you wanted to fight
about aphrodite
as if she were the threat
we needed to shield ourselves from
.
i remember all the light and love you sent
while the world was burning
the way you insulated yourself from reality
with yoga pants and fancy names for scented candles
(me, too)
.
i remember the shade you cast on all the words
you disagreed with
.
i want it all back
.
the irritation
the aggravation
the application
.
i want to laugh at bad jokes and
drunk-dance to sap-rock playlists
or whisper superstition while drawing
hexes in midnight circles
.
i want to pretend it doesn’t matter
i want i want i want i want
i want
.
there are words and then
there are words
.
we’ve forgotten what it’s like to be human
.
artificial intelligence is the oracle of pretense
.
tomorrow has always been uncertain
(and we pretend, now, that uncertain
is the same as unpredictable)
.
men have always been aggressors
women, protectors
(so they say)
.
mother earth, mother nature, mother mother
madonna-whore
.
roles reverse
.
we all want happy endings
and reality offers only
rainbow compromise
.
we learn from silence
but grow only in the
brutal fire of light
.
i said something once that meant something
in a dream somewhere with no one listening
.
you are my consummate nightmare
.
not you, of course
.
but you
standing there
all smiles
.
i remember the flames,
licking
.
every battle is bound
to be fought
in circles
.
i bend my will
to straight horizon
round earth
golden
reflection
.
.
.
.
.
a grocery-store rose
never smells as good
as one grown outside in the garden.
having said that,
a grocery-store rose
is better than no rose at all.
and both will die with the same poignant beauty.
life is complicated.
life is simple.
life is living.
we like to pretend (in our heads)
that it’s more than that.
but really, that’s all there is:
living.
in between there is grace—
as hard to grasp as a thorn.
you think i don’t know what i’m talking about.
you are absolutely correct.
also,
never trust a rose.
.
.
.
