I feel like talking today,
the kind of talking I know no one cares about
just rambling really
about the steampunk bird I saw in an airport shop
or what kind of cupcakes I want to bake
or how bored I am with the things I ought to be doing right now.
It's not like I have no one to talk to
but really, there's not one soul I can imagine would be interested
that's what journals are for I guess
i must tiptoe around it and never speak of it aloud
this providential mistaken identity which has landed on me
hush my celebrations
- if the powers should notice
someone might change their mind
and return me to my normal programming
i must never disregard it or take it for granted
never stop being grateful in my heart
because of course it can't last forever
i’ll let it glow through me
but dust off the sparkles if anyone looks too closely
any attention may bring unwanted scrutiny
it’s so obviously undeserved
i must revel in it quietly
bathe it in til the bubbles burst
luck this beautiful should be savored
and before someone realizes they gave it to the wrong person
i'll happily relish it - in secret, and on tiptoe
It's beautiful here in so many ways
the lightning shocks the sky in electric waves
and you can drink the air like warm tea
Away from the pressure of years of sameness
away from hundreds of people with a firm idea of who I am
there’s a freedom here I can’t get in my hometown
But after just a few days, I miss that life
The texture of the silence is less satisfying here
the sky is too big and the trees are too round
Former irritations become nostalgic in the traveler-mind
My unkempt backyard and domestic chores,
even work demands take on a rosy retrospect halo.
There I chafe at the pigeonhole I feel shrinking in around me year-by-year
Here I miss how well my real life “knows” me
and envelopes me like a comfortable protective second-skin.
My wife sends me a text message to “stay in the moment.”
She means it as a reminder to pay attention to schedules and directions.
In a wider context, it’s a good manifesto for the rest of my life.
I should bottle the freedom I feel here
and apply it every morning like perfume
enjoy the things I love (and at least be present for the things I don’t.)
I’ll remember to be anyone I want to be despite what’s expected
I will breathe in the silence and breathe out the craving
to get away to somewhere "new"
when whereever I am can feel new at anytime
if I just determine it to be.
I’ll remember how lucky I am to BE at all.
I’ll be glad to get back home,
but for now I’m content to be
-right here- too.
Entirely against all probability,
he's sweetness walking.
With everything to lose,
he offers himself freely.
The story of his past
is stacked in loose piles of sticks
spelling out a message that he will be slow to trust
maybe even incapable of forging bonds.
Instead, he presses his small, warm body against me
- an erstwhile stranger -
conforms to the curve of my chest,
breathes his soft doggy sighs close to my heart,
and makes his mark irrevocably there.
I ate the World today.
Not really a binge - I justify -
because I didn’t eat a lot of any one continent.
But I surrendered to an anonymous fickle hunger;
blind-folded and willing taste-tester of planets.
I ate like an empty person
trying to fill up
not sure exactly where the leak was
but certain I could stuff it up with pistachios
if I ate them quickly enough to bind.
I ate like a person trying to cover up a tattoo
smearing on denial like makeup
pretending no one could see how deeply my skin is scored
by years of shell-building
and other ill-considered cheese grater decisions.
I ate like the act could change reality -
like each bite could be basted into my cloak of invisibility
over the atrophied limbs of my creativity
wasted from spending too many years strapped in a chair
where the main challenge given me
is juggling seventy-two-thousand dusty details
without letting anyone see my arms move.
I ate the Whole World today
(and drank some of it too.)
I didn’t do it in a cloud of self-doubt and reproach,
but in a probing, searching, grasping way.
In a hungry-for-something-if-only-I-could-identify-it way.
In a way I thought was behind me and evidently isn't.
I still can’t regret, it even so.
Yes, I ate it all.
But as I recall each vacant crunchy sweet salty mouthful,
I see how far I’ve come from the unexamined appetites of my past
that blindly accepted calories over real nourishment
and concealment over bravery
and I find I’m a step further than I was yesterday
from the World eating Me.
Oh, people pleaser,
steeped in false humility
gagged, obstructed, stifled, dammed
choked silent by overlings
who want you only so good
but never better
than their apparent
superior strain.
How can you lay there
whored to mediocrity
wasting your luster
patina peeling, rusting
hiding your glimmer.
The time will come when you’re forced
to throw off the yoke
seize reality
declare your godhood
at last, to shine true.
None of your excuses then
-your child self wasn’t nurtured-
-they won’t love you authentic-
-you do what you have to do-
None of that holds sway
when framed in the light
of your last sunset,
you find that being YOURSELF
was the real purpose
and you sold out to avoid
making any waves.
I feel the empty
eight hours without my right arm
My seed lies in wait
My mental movies distract me from my work.
All the dramas seem to be about me.
I write them out and share them with a faceless "you"
and wonder who would be interested in my interior landscape.
It's of major interest to me of course...
but can you see yourself
in these lines?
Do we connect at all
or am I as isolated as I feel
here in my quiet office
with my work heaped up all around me?
I want to immortalize my love for you in a poem or a song,
but I'm not sure how.
When I ask myself what you mean to me,
it's like asking what my skin means to me
or my arms or my legs.
It's like asking how I feel about the fact that I'm allowed to breathe in
every few seconds.
I need it desperately. I can't live without it. It allows me to be who I am.
It's beautiful, satisfying, and feels so right.
I'm possessive and I guard it, aware of how I need it.
It's such a part of me that I often take it for granted.
When I remember to be, I'm so incredibly grateful.
So I guess here's your poem.
I love you more than breathing.
the words are flowing again
not in straight lines; never in straight lines
i struggle to get in the habit of catching them...
they're cottonwood fluff balls
wafting by on hot summer days
i try to snatch them out of the air
like mr miagi with his chopsticks
If I let it, the snow piles and drifts.
So deep, and deeper.
So cold, til it’s warm.
So silent, my underground mausoleum tomb.
When I’m in, I can perceive no way out.
When I’m out, the way back is ever clear.
So tempting, I yearn.
So enticing, the dampening shield of protective womb.
Even in spring thaw
so warm in its bright yellow light,
the quiet of sun’s rays ensnare
to lay me out dry on a grassy hill of silence.
Even when immersed in sound – in busy – in bustle
I hear its soundless call.
Voiceless, I understand.
Murmuring and hushed, I attend the better.
I could be lured back by circumstance or pain.
By inattention or carelessness.
In truth, I could be drawn in by floating motes
disguised as secret longing
to be covered in snow.
“You’re melting” someone said.
It was intended as a compliment
and I dutifully thanked her but in reality I have felt my presence diminish.
I take up less space in the world with this body.
What will be left in its’ place?
As I whittle down the outer shell, literally,
