.
.
if hemingway had wings
i think a lot about
the difference
between
art and artist
words and author
music and composer
one is immortal, one is not
one is ethereal, one is human
one is creation, one is destruction
i always stop
there
.
. . . . .
.
.
standing in the mud
of apprehension
holding my breath
birthing my fear
inhaling
flame
.
. . . . .
.
.
diligence and derelict
history is a faulty course
in humanity
we miss all the silence
the bone-crunching weight
of existence
the bleeding fingers of daily toil
and end up with highlights
reeled and presented
in a package wrapped in bias
much the way
we present ourselves today
in this new realm
of me-story
where you cannot believe
what you see
.
. . . . .
.
.
a poem, designed
all the things i’m sorry for
can’t be written
in the confines
of a page
i have a fibonacci spiral
the outline
of a staircase
this never-happened
maze
of fallen dream
two columns
of regret
(one wider than the other)
surrounded by white space
a round-edged photo
of background noise
and over to one side
an arrow
pointing
next
.
.
.
.
. . . . .
.
.
the day we (almost) died
was a day like any other
filled with
silences and bitter trope
a tiny bit
of fervent laughter
tea and whiskey
one small kiss in the crease
of a neck
sustenance and sugar
mirrors and spice.
.
. . . . .
.
.
a tiny map of luminescence
written on a
parchment paper life
and carried
home
.
. . . . .
.
there is all this space
built into walls
edging out corners
rippling on this ocean
of floor
.
.
.
on a wall
standing tall
for no reason
narcissus and woodpecker
posing as imprinted
impermanent
tattoo
listen
.
.
.
morning mirror and happenstance
pulling hope down at the corners
of a month meant for introspection
snow blows sideways against a window
curtained
a sparrow fights for survival
everyone, everywhere
arguing about books
and this is silence
holding tight
to a morning
short on light
showing up
as always
never quite
arriving
.
is buried in alaska
i know this because
you told me once
sitting on a square picnic table
beneath a dry dark sky
lit with acid green borealis
cassiopeia and orion
the only witness
to a wedding meant
for other people
another time, another place
blah, blah, blah
you get the picture
just a far off
long gone
atmospheric memory
rippling light and music
to lovers in a land
we’d only dreamt of
we watched in silence
for hours
those hours,
cradling minutes,
the quiet,
bone cold
seeping up
through cheap
cracked boots
and hol(e)y
handmade
mittens
