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)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (64)
what he remembers now
is different than what
he remembered then
.
now he is old
and does not remember
as well what happened
.
then he was young
and foolish and remembered
trivial things
.
of little use then
even less so
now
.
as he holds
his aspects together
between fragile hands
.
facets of the past
spin off light
for a moment
.
and he sees her eyes
that first night
they almost kissed
(June 16, 2020)
from a work in progress: process, not a journey (60)
obsessively the earth gives birth
to its dead rich and fertile
safe inside itself unseen
unvoiced like ecstatic dancers
beneath a moon-bright sky
the earth lifts the rose
the oak twisting and throbbing
into the air so i burrow deep
beneath the black soil a worm
gnashing rocks like prayers
until i find a darker god
and somewhere in the black clay
an old woman natters
lost in perpetual disappointment
and a death skull’s bored laugh’s
trapped in his life’s delusion
(May 7, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (55)
to see clearly I look
through lenses
made and adjusted
over time as my vision
grew worse
I understand to see
I must cast off
all perceptions
accumulated
within my cliches
like now as i remove
my glasses
and rub
my dim eyes
(April 19, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (52)
i’m exhausted
all day
yet at night
i cannot
sleep
i slowly stir
in my residual
bits of damp fear
like tea leaves
twirling up
from the bottom
of a cup
(April 16, 2020)
