Category Archives: poetry

it is a long, whistling walk in the corridors of time

those rose-tinted, slow motion memories
you can’t retrieve (there is a sadness
to the past, perhaps, because the you of
fifty years back, or even a day ago,
is more alive than the you doing the dreaming,
dying daily.

this is what I propose, you misty-eyed, fading
dreamer:
get up.
open to the soul of your dying.

hold nothing back.

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sometimes I miss you, when you’re gone and I’m grasping at life

sometimes the telephone wires are less of a friend than you would believe

and the shadows on the winter walls make me think of still-born Christmas carolers, gone away

behind the sheetrock where it’s two degrees less cold.

 

sometimes I wish I could slip back there with them—

one collective memory of the way life was, when it was applicable;

between worlds

where the creak of a board, flutter of a curtain could mean anything,

but these four verbs:

leaving, taking, going, forever

mean nothing and nothing at all,

 

amen.

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if spring never comes

I am thankful for the many-faceted glass,

the bending panes through which I perceive my own shadow.

 

I am thankful for the ever-pouring rain

on a day I can’t bear to say stop or anything but

wait,  listen.

 

I am thankful for the unending consumption of ages,

the lore of hidden passageways and adrenaline without consequence

resounding in my head.

 

I am thankful for the tree pushing through my garden, forcing its

small weight, a statement, into the still air.

 

I am thankful for remembering, when others seem to forget.

 

I am thankful for that winter when I put my hand on yours and our roles were reversed and

I was so glad you were alive.

 

I am thankful for the suspension of time as I read in some ill-lighted place,

my shadow stuck close to me.

 

I am thankful for the opening of my eyes each time I blink in

tiny sorrowful gifts and I believe this,

no matter what.

 

I am thankful for the snow outside my window yesterday,

(though I forgot to say it)

and today, and tomorrow,

even if I’m not there to receive it.

 

I am thankful for the thought of receiving

against the backdrop of uncertain tomorrows.

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stop editing yourself.

Tomorrow is the end of the world.

And because of supply and demand

We are praying and

 

Tomorrow is the end of the world

And because of supply and demand

We are praying and

Just dancing around in circles

 

And because of supply and demand

Tomorrow is the end of the world

Just dancing around in circles

Beauty is a fucking train wreck

 

Tomorrow is the end of the world

We are praying and

Beauty is a fucking train wreck.

 

Stop editing yourself.

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reading inside on a drizzly night

when I am riding past any house in the slow-gathering night,

in the spaces between trees, I spot the yellow glow,

a square-print sign of other life,

maybe just barely moving—

that soft glow-limned postage stamp above the slick, wet brown exterior,

the secret keeper standing,

door closed—

a safe haven from the rain.

 

in there, they are leaning against one wall, book in hand, I think,

just like me,

only I cannot see them. And then the urge comes, the excited

stirring, to be passing my own mellow square at the same time as

I sit huddled warm in a blanket

in some other reality and I will know

 

I have arrived.

 

me, in the static light watching time pass,

me in the crowded dark outside, passing

with it.

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there is time for everything

the crackling of an orange, over-intense mass of heat
throwing passion into a collected sky it cannot touch

the heat in my chest,
me grappling with the cold of stone patio at my fingertips,
staring up at stars like dew, caught
in the intricate, secretive mechanisms of a spider’s web,

the star-spider’s web (and I could believe this too,
up there where no one goes and existentialism dies on its feet,
just floating up there,
frozen with a million captured birds, a million points of heat so far away
we think them cold.)

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