sky grows my atmospheric
river the loss of loss
grief kite quit his book elving
so easily persuaded
falling is failing is failing falling
so airily displayed
worries a familiar queen
in what increments may I purchase
time or knowing how to get around?
night crashed fell fast
twinkled trees do not return my gaze
chandelier this winter darkness
opened pale and backwards
exit entering
windows in windows
portal the darkness
night crashed fell fast
 |
waiting for
the bus, nut
smacks the oblivious
street, black
feathers furl
down, black
beak pinches
nearly indestructible
treat, retreats to
bold black wire
safety, smiling
still, waiting
for the smack...
very quiet island, episodic sitting, sometimes still, sometimes raspberries, cooking with chopin, the sky did not threaten, depending upon your perspective, to rain all day like a fifties striptease gets so close without ever getting there, wordling myself into clouds again, abstract erotic hopeful poetry, suddenly the idea communes, tiramisu & tea-dirty chai, the champion of potatoes loves me again but only halfway, my day wore a tight t-shirt & the cockiest black jeans they have, cute babe reclines outside the pirate ship takes a surreptitious drag of me,
i am writing because i care.
Wednesday puddles
in slow motion
explosions of
fuchsia & lilac
ruffled rhododendrons
swirl a little girl
circles the aftermath
singing I am not
welcome but
I am not trapped.
grateful for blossom
and new wave on the grass.
evidence of rain.
Grateful for
the clouds. I remember
the morning behind the blinds,
darkening. We say
took the day off but
never gave the day away.
thick and malty, a day of
dark teas. Grateful for
the clouds after all
that sun. I have
begun to tan makes
all my scars
glow.
cannot see them where they sit
do not know them but i know
the trees bloom above where
a man who is black has been
shot again she says to the other
like kicking a dog it’s probably
wrong he probably shouldn’t
have died she concedes but
breaking windows is what’s
really wrong she says
as the trees bloom above.
no matter how
overcast you
can never really
see his eyes
glassed against even
the possibility of
sun, leans
hooded & camouflaged
against the rail on
5th & Washington
summons a quiet
storm through song.
Sunny morning, walking towards chai and a window to write beside, an older man sits cross legged on the sidewalk, shirt off, flaccid white wrinkled man breasts, he is rubbing the crook of his arm where I notice the random punctuation of dark dots as if he couldn’t find the end of the sentence. Continue on. Walking home after journaling I pass what used to be a vacant lot that was depaved and turned into a playground for the kids at Escuela Viva, a preschool whose main principle is Love and respect permeate every aspect of our school community. Warms my heart to hear their yelling & laughter. Just past the playground there is a man sitting at Triumph’s outdoor table, bent over the crook of his arm from which is dangling a syringe filled with reddish brown liquid (blood, drug, or both?). Chemotherapy flashback, how I loathe needles as do my veins which will only respond to the most professional phlebotomists now. I remember a guy named Paul who used to read at the Cafe Lena open mic every once in awhile back in the nineties. It seemed like he always reading these weirdly romanticized, erotic poems about heroin addiction. Some serious, deeply committed needle fetish. I go into Triumph, which happens to be the new name of the cafe I used to do spokenword at several years ago and alert the staff to what’s going on outside. Continue on. Log in at home to find out an old friend who’s been slowly dying an excruciating death may be reaching his breaking point and I cannot in good conscience wish for him to stay in the hope that I may one day see him again. When is enough enough? And how will I know when he has decided, I wonder? Continue on. I go for a walk to Ladd’s Circle to enjoy the lovely afternoon warmth & sun. On the way down the street an older man staggers towards me from the opposite way. His stagger is striking for the obvious agony of its effort and yet remarkable, and quite grim determination. He is clutching a full bottle of Jack Daniels, its liquor glinting in the sunlight. Continue on to Palios for some freshly baked German Chocolate cake and Assam tea. I sit beside the window with my notebook, trying to think about what to write about when a homeless man I have seen for many years in my neighborhood who I am friendly with spots me, says he’s had a rough year so far and that last year was rough too. He tells me that he got hit by a car which broke his leg in three places. He tried to recover by staying at a homeless shelter, (he always camps) but he got scabies really bad. He said he’d been homeless for over twenty-eight years. I tell him I’m sorry and wish him good luck, which feels completely ridiculous to say. And then I return home, take a hot bath, and meditate.
May you love
& be loved
& be love
