untitled.

there’s no such thing as time

there is only now

and the sand will forgive your steps if you allow her to

holiday.

i set out a cup.

i set out two cups.

well, thermoses really.

and tried not to imagine cold drops of river water cascading down your pale shoulders.

the same ones I’m waiting to sink my teeth into. 

untitled.

Of course we are here- begging to be seen, hoping we’re more important than stars. In the shimmering death of blackberries, and as a sky clears after a dark snow there is defiance, breath and body in upheaval and ruin. Of course we are here- choosing to spend our magic in caves as cave-dwellers. 

earnest.

Here I am trying to create something.

Have you been creating?

And will you yet do away with the rules about creation you have inherited?

You’re a tombstone, a hieroglyphic, a heritage tree

and you think no one is willing to pause and read some sonnet about all that you are?

observations.

I left the window open in my loft nearly the summer long. It didn’t serve me in any way beyond portaling some of the cool air in at night, the few nights it was cool.

and I looked at you today and felt your frustration in a way that no one who is alone should have to feel. at the very least, I knew this time it had nothing to do with me.

this is the only way I know I am changing with the misty Oregon season: I think two thoughts instead of one and they contradict each other.

and I think that if I told a therapist this story, she would say I’m managing it well, but I hope she would be able to see past my face and know how violently I long for life beyond management.

for evelyn.

strawberry jam is being on the farm

at the breakfast table, in this case the supper table to make room for everyone who came by this morning

but not before climbing onto the hard-backed bench to find what she hid while we were still asleep

the cats will congregate at the door stoop

and I’m guessing she saved them something too

she called me on the phone when I left

and I wanted to understand her.

Image courtesy of Mark McBrearty

untitled.

I feel so fucking needy

and that’s the part I can’t keep getting away with

physically here but unable to realize, to breathe fully enough—fuck poetry and fuck trying to be good at it

the words only appear when you are: on the fucking ground, too battered by your god to know left from right

alone beside a cabin, horrified by the possibility that you might just Be This Way Forever

and so lost in the eyes of someone you think sees you that you forget your cup is meant to be full too. Pouring one out for the beggar I used to be.

a theory.

Being bashful

about your own art

is like hiding from the sun

on the first day of spring

Image courtesy of Mark McBrearty

suntired.

I’ve become suntired all over again

freckles pulsating toward light

and god do I need to find a place

for all my winter coats

I’m loftier than I have been and more in the ground all at once

every

opposite

knee-jerk

thunder-foaming

mind cycle

is forced to pause

and observe the yellowjackets making a home in my doorway

and I act like I haven’t made my home in theirs

Image courtesy of Mark McBrearty