from a work-in-progress: “process not a journey” (38)
seed pods drift destroying
the dandelion’s soft unity
days slip past and I remember
less and less who I have become
.
I too am pulled apart
as memory’s long strands float
away like red silk scarves
on a late winter’s wind
(March 19, 2020)
they said, then she said, and can you believe
it that this happened, then that happened too,
and I said that she should say, but then she
went and said that this was just way too much
to stand, much less believe like Santa Claus;
I am so upset that I stabbed myself
with my pen, and wondered if I would die:
but first answer me this: “if you’re tattooed
on your lip, do you have to hold the lip
the whole time, or do they do that for you?”
as she stared into space holding her lip
lost in the quandaries of everything
not involved with the task which was right there,
and not there like an answered Zen koan.
(February 28, 2020)
All around him, the forest burns,
uncontrolled, beautiful.
The warmth reassures him
with its certainty.
His fingers burn; the flesh
chars as on a spit.
He turns, searching;
but she is gone, if ever
she were truly there.
He stands alone,
arms outstretched.
Flames leap through the trees;
smoke swallows the sky.
(December 10, 2019)
It’s not fair to compare
one to the other where secrets
are apropos to a love affair,
or some distant war as far
as that goes. Yet, what’s to be
done to stop it? What metaphor
within yourself were you willing
to sacrifice? As long as one
doesn’t mind water swallowing
your words, it’s simple enough
to drown in any nearby river.
I, too, hold my expectations
at a distance in order to live—
I’m not sure what occurred,
or even if we were just lovers.
(August 15, 2018)
The line demarks a space
opened in the word—
As I speak, I see
the air tremble like glass.
The length of time left
demands fealty to the page,
to a resonance with a past
that is only there in mind.
An open window no longer
distorts vision, nor withholds
access to a world other than
the tight confines of this room.
A vein runs my arm’s length,
spilling blood across the floor.
(June 15, 2018)
I stand beneath layers
of my sedimentation,
as if the very air
has turned to silt
settling to the sea floor.
I know no tendency
toward an escape
beyond a calm acceptance
of the fossil formed
from what used to be me.
A configuration shaped
to a shell implies a notion
of what it once meant to be
a creature alive in the sea.
(April 25, 2018)
clotting into a thick mass
dread drops like cottonwood fluff
throughout the soft afternoon
I cannot breathe this darkness
too many knots of decay
to choke like thorns down my throat
each morning I spit a bit
then find scraps of redemption
as I stumble out the door
a new day’s dark-red dawn blurs
a simple numbness unfolds
inevitable and cold
I gasp and look to the sky
hopeful I will breathe today
(November 30, 2017)
