fist (under the rug)

fist (under the rug)

poured into a frosted pint glass from the freezer

the beer ribbons amber-brown billowing a head

caramel-colored like a Dr. Pepper ice-cream float

sometimes my childhood rises before me in a glass

everyone is home and i drink alone as usual

waking to a fog-wrapped morning replacing

the sudden blanket of snow from a week before

•

i have lived my life

like a fist raised in protest

denying my palms and fingertips

the world they desire to hold and touch

my arm numb because

once a secret you cherished

i am now dirt swept under the rug

as you have begun putting your house in order

•

sunshine rises like a gentle hand

to wipe away morning's fog-mask

and the day warms like the promise

of spring waving just past winter

crinoline (&)

crinoline (&)

“As if that was the only thing you could do with quilts.”

“Everyday Use,” Alice Walker

“Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.”

“Lady Lazarus,” Sylvia Plath

i collect the tattered remains

of shirts & pants worn with you

now threadbare & out-of-date

fashion passes like stones in a well

woven fabric will fail under weight

& i too soon wore out my welcome

still i gather needle & thread in hand

to piece together cherished remnants

quilting is recollection crafted into use

blanketing the ticking decay of living

under a menagerie of resurrecting you

no longer jumping through crinoline hoops

tarantulas sharks black mambas zombies & witches

tarantulas sharks black mambas zombies & witches

i am afraid of flying

but that isn’t quite an accurate confession

i fear the idea of flying

the raw physics of engines acceleration & lift

we manufacture fears

tarantulas sharks black mambas zombies & witches

things unlikely to happen

things that exist only in our fabricated other worlds

while quietly & doggedly

the heart spreads its vines searching for another

fearless against the brick wall

surrounding each of us alone at the bottom of the well

scales (homophones)

scales (homophones)


he was forced finally

to wade into the question

heavier than anything

he had ever weighed

if you are unable to show in action

the substance of your heart

is it truly the substance of your heart?

scales could never measure

the weight of the answer

he couldn’t wait to hear

pressing on his chest and mind

in the end he would not weigh

the options of heart and actions

or the way her words couldn’t

walk across the room to him again

bruises, horns, flakes of dried blood, & new books

bruises, horns, flakes of dried blood, & new books

you always bruised easily

& would tell me about each new one

how you had no idea when it happened

or the moment you knew you’d caused another

bruises blossom through a rainbow of colors

black purple green yellow

& expand before blinking like a lake

freezing in winter & thawing each spring

•

if i could write you a song

it would have a horn section

& the music would rise electric

like a morning sky somewhere

among pink & orange & red

reminding you of the word joyous

•

the morning shave left nicks across my face

flakes of dried blood dotting my skin

i never noticed & no one said a word all day

until i saw you & of course your hand rose

to my cheek to wipe away brown flakes

as if that was the most important thing ever

•

i open the cardboard package of books

a bouquet of Murakami bundled

into a neat brick of new worlds

that i cannot share with you

i hold each one briefly rubbing the cover

regretting one corner is bent from shipping

wake (i will try)

wake (i will try)

“But I will hold on hope

And I won’t let you choke

On the noose around your neck…”

“The Cave,” Mumford & Sons

i lie in the wake of ships that have sailed

a creature of water and a being who failed

when called to walk on water

i cannot

though as a young man and life guard

teaching children to swim in a pool

i had to admit i cannot even float

water accepts me and pulls me down

what a silly thing to be called Aquarius

as if aligning stars reach out to mortals

dialing up our lives like winding a watch

or rowing a boat across a freckled universe

rain like falling stars teases earth-bound souls

floods remind humans sculpted from dirt

that everything can be washed away by gods

baptisms imposed by cloudless celestial storms

i lie in the wake of ships that have sailed

a creature of water and a being who failed

planets turn on their axes as their orbits erode

elliptical spinning determination to hold course

water birthed me and is my living grave you see

swimming and drowning are my perpetual wake

an axe cannot split water and dust rises under footfall

while through dreams each morning i return to day

star light star bright may be a planet long since gone

like listening to the orchestra’s music close-eyed

i believe in starlight and the sound of the ceaseless tide

filled with the fear of never walking this beach again

tasting salt water filling my lungs against this peace

of stars moons planets rivers lakes oceans and sky

when called to rise from this drowning

i will try

in the absence of you (men are crude)

in the absence of you (men are crude)

men are crude

prone as we are to objectifying anything

even the things we genuinely love & admire

prone as we are to being violent & callous

especially toward the meek & vulnerable

& i as one of them

i as a becoming man

often find the mirror

a mural of disappointment

& while i cannot deny

i ache for your smell

the touch of only your skin

what others would call base longing

& i will not deny

i am a lonely man

desirous of you & no one else

hoping that somehow this can matter

above everything else

this is eternal & true

in the absence of you

there is nothing more precious

than the presence of you

because

there is much to talk about

sadness (dark chocolate)

sadness (dark chocolate)

"Then I hugged her one more time, to etch her warmth indelibly into my brain."

Haruki Murakami, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World

sadness has a special sweetness

not in its occurrence

but as a state of being

i do not feel sad

nothing makes me sad

i am sad therefore i am

but inside that sadness

sits like a yolk in a shell

this moment of happiness

that otherwise would have been lost

inconsequential as rain or snow

and just as ephemeral

the last time i was happy

occurred nearly two years ago

but i know the moment

i know where i was sitting

i know what you asked of me

i know the week that followed

and all of it remains like you

dark chocolate on the tongue

of my memory and imagination

i whisper to myself alone

prayers and pleas and longings

for you my sadness and happiness