Fortunately Gone, This Much Given
Two decades time erases precisely nothing
Waiting assumes a form
First snow of the old year & a small girl, purple Gore-Tex, penciled-in dog left-hand corner;
all the pretty things are taking up space around the corners of those mouths
open hijacked agape
at delphinium bundled in banners smokestacks jettisoned
& three dictators died this weekend
O loving used to be "I wait for you"
Would it be presumptuous to re-title this series "Beatitudes"?
On this, the first evening of the Festival of Lights
<plaster, hinge, zinc oxide>
Geriatrics have been released from their lairs.
Courageous tweet is not necessarily the same thing as outrageous tweet.
Baruch atah adonai.
"A city of candles."
Journaling as Self-Sabotaging Subterfuge
I once liked a boy because he was notational • falling off is not a plunge but a sort of leveling out •
black is the new forty • statements of fact are usually steeped in sentiment • turn around
Catalog of today's best birds:
a couple dozen juncos
a very large very black very startled raven
four fat hens foraging for seed upon a mound of earth
To all the girls I've loved before: I didn't really. I only loved you after, actually.
"After, Actually" it's either a new book of "linguistically disjunctive" poems or a romantic comedy.
Over 20 years my spelling has worsened & I've accumulated too many things with cords.
What do they say? Chop wood? Check. Carry water? Not yet.
Here is where a gorgeous, lyrical passage is supposed to go:
Here is where it ends. The rest is what they call "white space."
Your Face Is a Glaring Inconsistency
Let's all go to the lobby as I've become a smart phone
baling hay into an empty space once called San Joaquin
California wasn't made to be my muse but I like things
cracked as I am a fisher of men
Fandom tries hard to blink but speaks Spanish down the corridor
until some fractured nanny makes it stop.
Let's play Family Feud. Survey says
Stacey's gaze is a thousand credit cards through staggering fog, a key-chain flashlight.
This coast is a geographical anchor.
I do not understand my God—I only hope he makes it back.
a clean shot.
I love you but I can't do both. The Fibonacci keeps increasing & your face fills the frame with gray-scale pixels, past recognition, discarding visual cues we must go on breath. Air here is thin.
The woman leaned in & whispered,
"I no longer truck in dead-tree media."
Hold on a sec while I print that out.