that's mrs. mediocrity to you

sixteen 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.

.

today

i walked
in the rain

thunder
hounding

feet
pounding

head held
high

going
nowhere

sorta
fast

.

.

.

i once
built a moon
on a red wall of chapter
singing verse and pressing mortar
into cracks and desperation

all scrabble fingered
and blister burned

pasting love and scraps of
survival
over lies and offered
fiction

all the while pretty singing

this is the light
we eat by

this is the light
i worship at night

this is the light
i fly to

burning wing and hemmed
betrayals

my own false idol
swinging from a string
in the blackest corner
of orion’s night

.

.

.

as the crow
flies

through clouded
skies

my heart
will carry me
home

.

.

.

there will always be days
stretched tight
by the too dry skin
of living

there will always
be evil
rubbing shoulders
with light

always be witches
dancing circles
at night

always a cloud
blotting out
the gold sun

always loss and possibility
mixing chance
in roiling ocean

it doesn’t have
to be enough

or even
filling

warmth is the illusion
of life

parody is pure
in the blossom of sight

and green things grow
from the cracks
in black ice

.

.

.

like the bird
bouncing off
the top studio window
or the tree
bent broken fallen
from harsh storm
and
the grandmother
hearing news
of World War III
or the 12-year-old girl
standing cold
in a dress
called provocative
in a country
still reeling
from impossible
truths

100 days
is a phrase

with no rhyme

or right

reason

.

.

.

the wind shifts and

the tree frogs
are talking
to each other

warning of storm
and change
in a musical portent
of danger

i sit in this

spot

listening

shooters shooting
down at the gun club

neighbors mowing
fast-growing lawns

robins singing songs
of babies and love

youngsters driving by
too fast

sounds blowing by
on a breeze
bent on taking

and

the tree frogs
are talking
to each other

.

.

.

in a brief dawn moment
when i remembered
not to forget

to look down

to notice

three favorite flowers

fritillaria

(a poem in a name)

(a poem of a flower)

and i smiled
all day

.

.

.

there are so many things i cannot reach
so many miracles behind glass and
roses i’ll never cultivate
and all these days filled with bugs
and better thans and never enoughs

there is always that sky
through the tall short-lived poplars
growing faster than posterity

there is always a kitten
causing trouble in a field
of grey mice

there is always hope and
disappointment
always love
(that cliche of a word
even poets
can’t define)

and this one
grape hyacinth
growing stubborn
along the road
refusing to care
if i notice

.

.

.

mirror-moon and barely broken
downward dog and faintly spoken

i am hollow
i am raw
i am forgotten

i am refusal and predication
spitting out bitters
and smiling at wind-loose shutters

this is age and
this is mo(u)rning

and the narcissistic
narcissus
will never reveal
the long-etched key
to revival

.

.

.