no. 109

today i feel green

i take this pen and shoot sprouts from its tip

the roots travel up my arm and into my veins, finding their

way to my heart.  it is almost too much,

re-entry via pulmonary vein–especially when

the words don’t find the correct path to

come out again.  instead, they infiltrate my

organs wrapping themselves tightly–an impossible

knot, to which there is no end of beginning.

thus i am compelled to permit the roots’ growth

until, like tip of the pen, they sprout

flowers from my mouth

(written 27 november 2016)

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domestic(ated) bliss

i.

is domestic bliss just a state of

brain-spun confusion?

a mindset in which we’ve convinced ourselves

there is a paradigm of false perfection

we’ve domesticated our minds

roped them in to those everyday tasks

that the bliss is just a stupor

down to the cellular level

happiness is found in a tear storm

inducing mundanity

 

ii.

you infuriate me with your love of

the brilliant boredom of bliss

you sound so contented and i want you to be restless

i want you to be like me

to be messy on the inside

i want to share those secret disappointments with you

but you smile through your saccharine words

the one-liner that reveals nothing

the photo that is so preternaturally perfect that

i must send a twinning one of my own

the smile doesn’t reach my eyes

i imagine that yours is the same

 

iii.

never thought my domestic life would be

like an old hollywood musical

a lot less sparkle, a lot more dusty-dingy

not entirely devoid of self-made melodrama

i find myself strangely breaking into song

a fugue state in which i dance an 8-beat phrase

to the pop-hits of the day

to fill the space between loads of laundry

and emptying the dishwasher

reorganizing props for the millionth time

setting the stage for cereal box reality

 

 

(written 13 april/8 may 2018)

no. 108

buried under the sun

the sun glinted off the pit of their souls

blinding them to their own horrific

imperfections

genuflections

they made to deities whose homes

were found in temples

made of skin and bones

they saw them in the mirrors

stroking plumped plumage

gilding their own lilies

edging away from

discovery

recovery

they saw themselves in mirrors

and were pleased with the reflections

content with their

insatiability

culpability

no insurrection

where is their rage?

at the bottom

buried under the sun

(written 26 november 2018)

no. 107

did you think that i had disappeared?

oh my dearest,

in the off-chance you wondered at my absence

i am still here

somewhere between up and down, right and left

suspended in thought, preoccupied in stillness

but happily here, nonetheless

as you see,

my feet have come to light upon the ground

finally

i will try not to depart too soon

for our mutual liking, hoping that

you are still here

maybe returned from your own journey?

were you not dallying in the clouds?

making friends with the moon and stars?

seeking audience with the sun?

no, you say,

you were just waiting patiently for

my return.

written 5 november 2018

no. 106

preserved

today you brought me written words instead of flowers

each syllable a precious petal, pearly

i would not let them wither,

rather than putting them in a heart-shaped vase

cut crystal emotions amplifying their blooming declarations

i took those words, cut them from their papery confines

with delicate embroidery scissors, exquisite in their sharpness

and with the caution of a philatelist, used miniature tongs

to affix them in a most secret of stores

a diary in which i documented all your acts

 

(which some say should speak louder)

 

words, simple yet somehow convoluted

but yours instead of mine

i pressed them like single windblown wildflowers

preserved, stamp-like, between pages

they are more valuable to me

than bouquets

(written 11 september 2018)

no. 105

friendship

when the universe was building its frame

knotting its warp, choosing its weft

amongst the threads i imagine

there were two, side by side

it split them apart, chuckling

these ones are too similar for the same path

and so they were placed in different piles

 

but somehow

while the universe was busy weaving

fate entered with its whimsy

the two threads were so long, variegated

these are compatible,  said fate, and twined them

foiling the universe’s plans to keep them parallel

they twisted and turned, and finally crossed

 

the universe did not notice

so that silken weave remained uninterrupted

even as the meeting of those errant threads charged an explosion

which rendered the cloth more intricately, infinitely beautiful

the stealthy secret that fate planted came to fruition

when we met on that preordained day and time

and became friends forever

(written 11 june 2018)

no. 104

i miss you already

it’s cliché, but i miss you already, even though I’ve not yet left

your eyes, blue skies, with their cloudy cataracts of nostalgia

the music of your voice, its alveolar trill and sibilance render me bereft

i have begun, preemptively, to pull away, embrace melancholia

 

the deep lakes of emotion that reside within your border

they fill my heart with longing though i may still bathe in their waves

i cannot escape this sadness hemming me inside of your wild order

the birches and tar pines of your arms afford me the embrace i crave

 

please console me, tell me i do not have to go so far away

that i mustn’t strip you from my soul in order to survive the pain of leaving

tell me you’ll always be here, unchanged, so that someday

i can return to your forests, your lakes, your streets, without grieving

 

but i know this is not possible and that is why my cheeks are wet

you’ll change and grow, you’ll move beyond me as you do

and so i’ll gaze upon your face glad i must not leave just yet

when i return i know my face will be unfamiliar to you too

 

more than 1000 nights i have slept in your cocoon

does that mean that you’ve become a part of my very essence

a scent that never leaves my skin

or will you slowly drift away, slip like silk from my memory

fade in the sunlight and misty rain of my new abode?

(written 3 june 2018)