Posted in Life, poetry

Nobody and Thursday

The past few weeks have been difficult for me. It’s an internal thing, peppered with some outside forces. The struggle is real. The sads are deep.  It’s not PMS either. It’s PMS’s punk ass step sister.

The peppered outside forces crept up onto my shoulder this morning and I tried to brush them off. I was met with resistance. Deep breathing helps, but I still feel their weight. I logged on and into my workload for the day. My mind feels empty- but full of heavy, wet, fog.

I opened another tab in my browser and stared at the screen.  I closed my eyes and this poem flashed in my mind:

the laughing heart

your life is your life.
don’t let it be clubbed into dank
submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the
darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you
chances.
know them, take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death
in life,
sometimes
and the more often you
learn to do it,
the more light there will
be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have
it.
you are marvelous.
the gods wait to delight
in
you.
-Charles Bukowski, 1993

And with that, I felt the resistance give way, just a bit.

 

Posted in poetry, Writing

Threadbare

I have become

the thread that hangs

from your sleeve

the blue shirt

that you wore for brunch

the one that brings out the

madness in your eyes

and the ice in your veins

I am

tickling your wrist

a panic

that perhaps it was a spider

crawling higher up your arm

to perch on your collar

and whisper

that I’ve hated you for so

long

maybe I’ll be the dead

grazing your flesh

to remember

to forget

to know

that the balance of all

that we were

hangs on a thread

that you’ll eventually

pull

and discard

onto the floor-

but what else

is

new?

Posted in poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

Ore

We were,

like two fire escape ladders

Always next to one another

Never touching

icebound in winter,

when the city is wrapped in gray.

Broiling in the long summer

when the city radiates in reds.

Never used

No emergencies

No hero’s parade

A penchant for all that is good

Until we are replaced

with new

sinewy

ladders

That may or may not

ever touch

or be heroic

or in love.

Posted in poetry

Compare, Contrast, Divide.

All you poets,

get your pens ready

Autumn is here and how, oh how,

are we ever going to capture the dying beauty of the season?

Time is not on our side-

Each one of us guilty of

using the words:

crunch, crumble, rustle, rustled, rustling

Here we go, trying to convey

the smell of decaying Earth

Capture it, swoop it up in your wide arms

which you’ll bring close to your breast

hug that decaying pile

so that you can show it all off

Here, here,

look at my words

dead like beetles under rocks

dead like the mailman’s face

dead like your eyes, when you wear

blue shirts

With sighing sighs and long gazes

you drink up the day

(Compare the day to a glass of amber beer, an extra dirty martini, or perhaps if you’re like me and milking a hangover, a large ice water. But you must compare. MUST).

noticing the sun is trying to blind you

from the right side, catching your peripheral vision

and pissing you off

through branches that were once thick and green

(Compare to life full and lush, now waning. Go on, do it).

Come on now poets,

don’t let anyone down

the world, or rather, those who follow your Twitter feed

are anxious to hear what you have to say about the

changing season- Tell them all,

get to getting

to comparing

to describing

before the day has merged into weeks

crashed into months

and before you find yourself

standing at the bus stop

in moon boots and heavy coat with cheaply made scarves

watching as your exhaled breath

fills up with words

about how you hate the icy prick

of winter;

which will give way to the birth of Spring

and the grade school glam of Summer.

Posted in poetry, Writing

Sun Peach

If the sun took a moment,

to hush itself and turn down the heat,

waiting for itself to darken, like a rotted peach

it would take eight minutes for any of us

to realize that life as we know it

would be snuffed out,

like a hot match between two wet fingertips.

Posted in Life, poetry, Writing

Unrelated Objects Moonlighting As Distant Friends

One afternoon, you asked me to build up my dreams.

I assumed you were referring to brick and mortar dreams. Dinner plates and no fork kind of dreams. To be taller than the Burj Khalifa. Larger than Paris at night. Heavier than orange trees and softer than cherry blossoms. Those kind of dreams. Or as you’d say, “aspirations” with a whisper.

I tried to say, that sort of hope, it died right before I had the chance to cradle it against me. Those hazy dreams hang on like a pearl nuzzled in the mantle of an oyster. That sort of thing is gone from me now though. Yanked apart to be enjoyed on sticky summer evenings with mugs of cold beer or frozen boozy drinks that are the color of crayons.

You couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to miss half of yourself.

I wanted to whisper back that not all dreams are about words. Not all are about buildings with amber lights looking like half full glasses of beer beckoning you to drink them empty.

Not all dreams are dreams- they are just there

faint perfume in an empty room
empty boxes in the garage
dirty coins in the bottom of the cup holder
cold coffee in paper cups
time sheets with the right hours
bottles of left over wine which you thought you’d use for a rue
but decided to drink instead
and the struggle not to strangle.

All of this, lumped into paragraphs
and neatly stacked sentences
to try and make you understand-

The best parts of me are hidden.

I am the only one
who knows the rotting hell writhing up from my gut.