because what choice do we have
and besides
the sun made a rare appearance this morning
dishes needed washing
we need to eat
and
some days
it’s fair to say
i’m tired.
part of me thinks
revolution
is for the young
and we’re all just
spinning
waiting
acting
watching
fighting
for
another
day
to stand
or soar
or sit with it all
once more
.
.
.
I couldn’t sleep for weeks
and then I remembered that I needed to write.
Ariel was always a dream, but a wakeful one,
whispering pictures and posturing portent.
I don’t need to sing, my body
is always happy to do that for me.
There’s a fire burning inside me (literally)
at the same time there’s a fire
burning down the world.
I lay awake at night and rage at everything,
but in a peaceful way.
I eat grace for breakfast and anomaly for lunch.
Everything has too many calories.
Something else I have to burn.
I can only sleep when my feet are cool
and mine are scorching these sheets
like my mother’s old iron.
This room is never dark enough,
and I am never really here.
It doesn’t matter.
Matter is energy and I am combustible.
I float like a gas just south of the ceiling.
No one ever notices, which is funny.
Except when I get stuck in cobwebs.
I’ve lived in this house longer than I haven’t.
It’s small and tiny and we are always tripping over each other.
I trip over everything anyway.
It’s winter and I miss the sky.
The snow geese are down at the swamp screaming injustice.
On New Year’s Eve the fireworks gave them fits
and I smiled as I stood
alone in the center of road
as white sparks drifted down
like lost feathers.
.
.
.
i swallow purple and dream of bluebells
blanketing a field made of permanence
they put me under and i bleed in tandem
with color-blind heart
and restless fingers
tapping love songs to spiders
in starlit soliloquy
and we run
through red rivers
black oceans
dead forests
never out of breath
or short of currency
trailing ribbons
weaving knots
stitching sides
un
raveling
.
.
.
eighteen 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
::
.
.
.
a giggle escapes
through the space
between
clouds
blue sky
bleeding
promises
and you
in the corner
throwing choices
at cracked white walls
always looking
for the one
that will stick
i hear an ocean of epitaph
singeing torn curtains
a whale on the roof
leaking tears
into gutter
grey gull
limping flight
through white waves of sand
a bead of laughter
rises up
beneath the surface
breaking skin and
creeping starfish
that will die
of too much sun
and the ball
rolling back in my
direction
comes to rest
at the edge
of false fealty
cliff hanger hopeful
and harpy sated
siren
marking grid
on fields of silent
glittered gauze
(as if it didn’t)
you held my hand and pretended
to be charmed, or charming, i forget
witch
as i wept the ocean, starfish and octopus
all legs and phosphorescence
circling
imprints in the sand that marched
back to the depths on a wave,
indifferent
.
.
.
.
.
kintsugi
three parts shard
and one part molten
we’ve forgotten how to fix things
(it’s easier to discard)
we all have cracks
and fissures
dents and holes
some of us hide them
better than others
some of us fill them
with gold
polish edges
display as beauty
and some of us
sip from a cup
no longer leaking
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
almost
the economy booms
and the shrapnel’s
made of lies
truths untold
litter fields
of reminiscence
the opposition
lining up
along one side
preparing for
a battle
no one wins
and poppies
line the forest
strewn with pride
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
asked and answered
in the middle of the afternoon
a long walk through urban forest
trees replaced with towering glass
jostling heads on unfurled shoulders
cement and asphalt impersonating
soil
heat pounding
heart pounding
noise rounding
corners
life
bleating
everywhere
unseen
.
. . . . .
.
