that's mrs. mediocrity to you

of cold

spinning deep down orders
to watch and warble and

listen

the way you stand there, alone, in a memory
of sanctitude

as if
as if

as is

forgiveness is the penny with no shine
worth next to nothing ’til you save it up
build a bright copper mountain
watch sleet coat the north

with patina

so much patience, required
this bold gift of living

inhale

over there, the beast just keeps rising
sun-gold and heat brittle branches
painting red a beginner’s horizon

luck is the path,
compass forbidden

embark, unmoored

stand frozen,
arrested

these clouds all smell
of winter

exhale

…

and i carried silence

limbs crashed as everyone watched
gladiator gold and cold blue judgment

but it tell you, i buried the seeds.

tending was a way of life
and you left me to it
watering
feeding
trimming fat
from bone

it’s not the burnished quiet
that destroys me

it’s the wind echo
petrified singing

cracking hope clear through
those
ring-counted hard-growth years

the sunset stays the same
holding space for another

tomorrow.

all i want is the gift
of a bare sapling
backlit
horizon

…

in the crooked end
of a thunderous day

all these colors
marching cross the floor
in turncoat uniform

the way you meant to go
in dark straight lines
but the labyrinth picked you up
on tiny golden bird wings

dropped you down
into the well

of expectation

deliverance in perfect
pirouette form

spinning leaves and knitted landscape
into this holey shawl

of absolution

…

the squirrel in the tree
i almost can’t see

racing hard
against gravity’s sunrise

hurry hurry
mask survival

in the distance
screams of geese
folding wings
to cold dark water

ever-floating
weary bones
through a litany
of maps
named somewhere

we’re all hearing
the same bold song

set loose
in a blistering sky

all huddled for warmth
beneath fleece
or feather

the ogre
and the ingenue

wrapped together
in the velvet clip
of silence

listening

release the girl you buried in sand
the broken mug you carried in hand
release the sun you held like rain
the bitter voice that slipped your name
release the carry
the call
the fall
release the heartbreak
of us all

release the truth you thought you knew
release the lies that no one threw
release the center
raw and runny
release the words that can’t be funny
release the cry
the sigh
the tarry
release the rhyme
the time
the merry

release the weight that broke your bones
release the scars carved from stone
release the hate
the love
the fear
release the flaws
that brought you here

…

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

twenty-one 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.

.

because all the mirrors
are broken
and your reflection

always hung
slightly crooked

framed by deckled edge
and past perturbance

and i
forever-settled
for the spot-speckled
lower left corner

while you took
center stage
with your soliloquy
of silence

and today I’m at the edge

of waves and water
water and waves

rolling sound and
rumbling cloud

tumble stumble
roam-rambling
around and around
and around

bent clock chiming
a litany of blue
false mirror memories
written only in sand

waves and water
water and waves

wearing down bone-sharp corners and
twisted-knife wounds

bash-crashing
ripple dancing
up the coast of blind deception

drowning out the sound
of simple silence
concealed in the shade
of broken boulders

pounding
washing
polishing
clean

these broken-tainted
pickled ghosts
drinking rich
from thirst’s existence

…

and everything i gave you was lost
and everything you took from me was broken
and today it’s just me

and

this blanket and this cat
and this blue brutal happiness of nothing
and i have nowhere to go
nowhere to put these feelings
everywhere i try to set them down

starts a fire

it’s sunday and no one
can fix my sky.