An oasis of joy and wonderment
Stepping here
your eyes may walk away.
Your skin may blend into sky.
But parts of you will always be
here, fog clinging to color:
the soft memory of leaves
before childhood slinked away.
Some memory moves,
over there, less apparent
than shadow, in the mouth
of fog. A squirming smudge
nearing anger, but it is
already fading. Time
to walk away
from the parts that remain.
No sun
just my empty shoes,
a shadow dangling
against the sky
beating black.
And my feet harmonious
with the oily street
while the stars seem
to step from me
and the lights look away–
your windows.
But I am a part of this,
my dirty feet are
a part of me
and a part of you.
Posted a shortened version of this on Twitter.
If I were a house,
a nice family would come
to feed summer’s sun, shine
each window with ignorant eyes.
Then they would be gone.
No laughter to occupy
these useless rooms. No ghosts
to organize. At least I am
a shed. Purposeful
even when empty
of your hands.
Written for #FromOneLine on Twitter.
Marcus tried to pave a day
without flaw, but as soon as he finished
his toast, he noticed the sun
did not come up. Nor were there stars,
nor was there a street below.
The plans were gone as the dark
stretched through the panes
and felt his room.
Written for #vss365 on Twitter.
Watching another war
cornered in my window,
thinking of how the soldiers below
no longer need names.
Even those who manage
to shamble away
merely fill another role.
I wonder if any see
me finishing my egg.
I wonder if any see
yesterday in today’s smoke
and know why.
Written for #vss365 on Twitter.
The quiet I usually crave
is over there, standing
before the door.
A resentment seeps
the air. Memory crawls
against the mirror.
But a part of me still kneels
to this bitter room.
Written for #FromOneLine on Twitter.
I want servants
whose hands will redden
when something deep comes
in my tone.
I want servants
who bitch within
their shadows
when plates and faces are
wrongly placed.
I want servants
who would fear me
even when I’m dead,
and mope
across their new days,
purposeless, yet not
searching.
A tinier version of this was written for #vss365 on Twitter.
I admit, if you peek inside
my little heart, you will find
my previous loves. You will find
their small wanderings,
their fruitless hands,
and the bickering eyes
they share as they circle
round in little red rooms.
But they have to stay,
they know this.
Each meaningful face
the heart steals. They can only
shake their heads at each other,
and sling their regrets over tea,
wishing they never brought
their wanderings into my heart.
Where is the past?
Is it in the corners of a closet
conspiring with some web?
Is it hiding in my slipper,
smiling with sharp surprise?
Maybe we could take the freeway
to meet its shore shining
with seaweed and shrapnel.
Yet, you want to stay
couched to the present.
But the present doesn’t want
us. The moment is a shrug.
Suddenly we find ourselves
contained to a dimming
closet next to the saddest
slipper and some empty web.
Looking at me: handsomely
placed near lesser stones, where the remainders
of my soul can hear the ignorant moans
of morning’s traffic. However, even death
makes it hard to complain; my voice,
my lies seem to belong more to dust above
than to me.
Written for #vss365 on Twitter.
