when mom died
we scattered her ashes
near the New Sweden cemetery
the chill wind swirled
like a witch’s spell
I inhaled then spat her out
today a cold wind dances
fall leaves down the street
I cough slightly then spit
(December 2, 2020)
When my mother died,
I did not get another—
one being
more than enough
for a lifetime.
(November 20, 2020)
With a late autumn
wind, a burr oak leaf flutters
gently to the ground.
(October 20, 2020)
“there is no absence that cannot be replaced”
—Rene Char
this patch of ground
where i must mend
my old wounds,
this is where I stand.
Minute by minute,
I replace
who I was
with who I am,
then sweep
the ash
into a pile.
I grow small within
this defined space
discarding bits of flesh,
and memory
like an old man
feeds birds
in the park,
alone and silent.
(September 24, 2020)
With a headful of sighs,
I move from room to room,
stand in the doorway, then turn,
followed by dark regrets
which waited to slither back
from all the obvious corners.
I promise myself again
as I slip further away:
it will only be a moment;
then days, then years vanish
before the wait will stop,
before I walk out the door.
(September 19, 2020)
today is today;
only, today’s different:
today, I am here.
(September 11, 2020)
this body holds no answers
other than its own
I listen to its stories
all the iterations
the looped variations
as if razors inscribe each word
labyrinths within labyrinths
a slow-cut scratch through skin
to bleed heal and cut again
until what is true
what is believed
what is said
intermingle
their incestuous scars
like runes carved
across cave walls
and I have nowhere to go
and nothing left to say
(September 9, 2020)
If I could peel these veins
from my arms and fashion
them into a noose,
then I’d find a dead tree
to swing upon
like a tattered paper lantern
dancing in an empty breeze.
(August 30, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (78)
after the worst of summer’s heat
we’d sit in the grass
beneath the pecan and cottonwoods
away from the radiant streets and sidewalks
the adults spoke of friends
far away or long dead
they’d laugh and tell stories
which we were not a part of yet
we ran wild through the night
afraid of nothing
(July 18, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey: (68)
“I cannot keep my dreams straight.”
-Franz Kafka
some nights most nights
after a whiskey or more
years if not decades
swirl like blue smoke
at my feet
and I forget
where I am as time
falls away like an old drunk
stumbling on my way home
the familiar story
the soft path alters
and strangers step out
of the dark laughing
vaguely and I have forgotten
why I’m laughing
then laugh again
(June 23, 2020)
