and i can’t find it
despite my best efforts
it’s been months, and nearly
years since it was misplaced
and this bus across this
bridge over this river
to this mountain seem
largely insufficient to help
me find it.
maybe you think you’re better
than this, like there is little
need to go find shit when it’s
been misplaced as most people
would just flush such shit
anyhow, but this is my shit
and i can go looking for it if
i want to and there is little
you can do to stop me from
seeking after it when a ticket from
houston to here is as
much as it is.
so i’ll giggle at you while
you laugh at me for seeking
so earnestly after my misplaced shit
others lay around and slowly
beat the wind with their wings
refusing to give in
fighting to keep on resisting
chasing life support
from the sun or the iron lung.
knowing the difference between
and when a situation calls
for one and not the other
can be the difference
we align our shoulders to roll balls
of wax across a slippery ice surface
and handle toilet paper in to wads
to stop the momentum.
say what you will about ball sports
the truth is there are guys out there
with the talents to make incredible
things happen in split second decisions
without a second thought and then
they’ve the muscle power and memory
to execute in a way that i can only
ever hope to mimic in my pipe-packing.
speaking of which, football is on
and i have a particular latakia blend
waiting for me
i feel i’ve planted something
here, by this place for words
but forgotten to water it or
something equally as life
threatening. i return with some
regularity to check on things but
find the withering distressing
and move on, blaming my lack
of a green thumb for the death
here. the decay. but I know a
bit of elbow grease and forgetting
for a moment myself for the sake
of these organisms would do some
good. i’m just unsure of how to
proceed from here. i know its
hard to begin to kneel and get to
the work when your back is
out of shape from lack of kneeling.
and these fingers. they need newly
i can’t believe these new surroundings
are smelly like this
and the grass grows so thick
i can rub my toes through it
(you know, it it weren’t covered in dog poo)
the driver says this is what it’s like
and i should get used to the rain
and the grey.
the neighbors tell me it doesn’t bother
the police work with the shades closed
and terrible dark blinky blue lights
reflecting off pale white walls and
a grey ceiling somehow pretending they’re
not in deep depression, or perhaps
but foolishness and foolheartedness,
and fattiness will be life.
uprooted for weeks
in the in-between
waiting in nothing
living with nothing
hoping for little
until the dust settles
and is swept away
then replaced with
new carpet and the
sunshine is removed
for rain and gray
because life sometimes
throws you a fastball
you mistake as a
curveball but discover
altogether too late
to do anything about it.
at that point you’re
waiting on nothing
living with little
and hoping for nothing.
there is a piano, i’ve noticed,
playing slowly in the background
as you walk through this city
in the snowfall and it’s playing
something perfectly suited for
the mood. the sun is down and the
notes are slow and probably in
some minor key. the snow covers
the ground, but is still thin enough
for the cobblestone to be obvious
enough it adds to the ambiance.
but i think i hear an electric guitar
fading in and
i’m fairly certain we all know what
this means. what’s coming for you.
when you turn that corner, it’s like
you don’t know you’re in a movie.
but every viewer is painfully aware
of your fate.
sun shines through the glass on the porch
on a deflated pink balloon
i’m led to believe was never popped
but nonetheless lost all it had
and withered into nothingness
you could grab on to some shrubbery
during your fall and attempt
to brace yourself from something
alternatively you could turn around
before you reach the edge of the cliff
and avoid the fall altogether and thus
the need to brace yourself.
but lets be honest that you’re not
reading this while still running towards
the cliff, you’re on your way down and
want a way out.
so grab some shrubbery. hope for a trampoline
at the bottom of the valley. or just simply
brace for impact. for sometimes the inevitable
is just that, and acting like it isn’t coming
isn’t going to make the splat any less painful.
Sometimes someone comes and knocks, something like two or some three times.
And then sometimes you have you kick out that someone, or do something like punch that someone once or sometimes twice, somewhere like in the face.
But usually it’s not a problem and you can just sit on your couch and continue eating your onion rings without worrying about it.
i string your toes together on elastic
like penne on a string brought
home by a child.
but these have been severed post-mortem
due to the crudeness of my new
moral values eroded by a slow
loss of respect for anything
your finger’s i’ll leave in the bowl
on the counter and wish i wasn’t so
disgusted by the cruelty (although
it’s not like you felt it).
and your feet i’ll make in to keychains
and sell them in a market. i’ll call
them good luck charms. and we’ll
miss, or so we’ll say. but we might
actually find we rather enjoy the excess
of carrots and lettuce all of a sudden
available to us for meals and juicing
since you’ve been gone.
tonight i will give it all i have
and with focused effort
i choose to defy earthly
to uphold my right to fly
to ignore, reject, outlive,
oppose, the farce of gravity
there are times and places
and people and things,
but this is none of those
and i find it highly suspect
that you’re still trying
to stuff it in your pocket
when the jar, the bag, and
your heart, failed to hold
it. but the misunderstandings
you’re perpetuating make
me believe there is also
little reason in attempting
to explaining it to you.
i like the way your shell
blows in the wind as you
wind your way down the path
though the park
the slime you leave behind
is different than the others
and pulls me in, if only
i could catch up
i like the way demonstrate
your skill at wall climbing
and hiding in the bushes
venturing out in the rain
and one day while lying in bed
and reading a clive staples commentary
on third or fifth-rate poetry,
it occurs to me that i’ve never written
a love poem. as in a poem about genuine
love and not the mushy gushy feeling
of pursuit and excitement. of the chase
so fleeting, wonderful yes, but no more love than avacado is ice cream though it shares a consistency.
and now married 8 years to the horribly imperfect, i think myself prepared
for a love poem. about dishes, fights, diapers, and choices again and again to be better than i think she deserves because i know undoubtably she’s being better than she thinks i deserve.
for though she sometimes
thinks knows me to be an ass
she delights in my imperfection and offers patience with my foolishness.
finding that, in a way, we
live thrive together somehow stronger with the constant struggle of maintaining one another;
stronger than we would be void of one another.
the choice so easy when weighed with the alternative.
so often left unweighed.
because to love is the choice.
the choice is to love.
there is a mind numbing misery
inherent in the midst of the joy.
numbness as a part as of rearing
teaching joy in the mundane an
there will be times soon
filled with fear i suppose
and i’ll attempt to combat
those times with poetry
but it wont work because
the poetry will lack poetic
nature much too much to
exhume what is bottled up