Monday, November 13, 2017

This: In Tune

West Indian Sandalwood
on the back of my neck.
Roman Chamomile
on the soft underside of my wrists.
Be still.

In harmony: an agreement
of pitch and intonation.
My soul-engine
humming in step, in symphathy
with the poetry of this quiet house.

Unknown names breach
this frailest silence:
our ruptured trust lasts 32 seconds,
but there is always another pen
available in this suburban Walden.

The moon is but an evening light.
I embrace this monotony, pulling myself
into this rich sameness: this
soft silence, such long stretches
of Frankincense.

Sunday, November 12, 2017

Sunday Afternoon in October

The red tablecloth is in the dryer
and the late-afternoon October light
falls silently in horizontal bars
across our tattered sofa.

The icecream truck plinked down the street:
one last call before pulling
into Winter's garage.
No one came.

This Fall silence --unseasonable--
is good for writing and being alone;
unless you are 10: boredom lurks,
masking its movements
underneath the refrigerator's hum.

A formattable Grendel to be slain
this Sunday afternoon:
kids drawn to cul-de-sacs
loitering with levity
organizing NERF platoons
calling out call-signs
holding onto this last day.
Who among them is the Geat leader?

A good time for a drink--
whiskey or wine--
I can hear my sobriety
leave my body.

Dustlight dances throughout;
the last load of laundry
clinks in the dryer
and crepuscular rays stream through
the gaps in the blinds.

Restful boredom awaits me--
a wide barrow
overgrown with wild grasses
and dandelions.

My solace over the end
to this October
Sunday afternoon.


Friday, November 10, 2017

Letter to my brother in prison

Dear Eddie,

You were twelve-years-old 
when I left you to grieve alone.

You were in the seventh grade
when I left you to raise yourself.

You were just a kid when I left.

Mom was 45 when she died.
I left to start my life at 19.

What the hell did I know?

I knew our family was broken,
bongs and Bob Marley silkscreens adorning 
the kitchen table.

I knew our house was unsafe for any child.
I knew you would be just fine.
I knew that I had to get the hell out of there,

and believe that you would be just fine.

I was wrong.
You were just a kid when I left
stuck between a state of pathos 
and a synthetic happiness.

Are we reduced to just one line at the time of our death?
TJN of Denver, a daycare provider, died Monday.

What is your line?
ENJ of Denver, a drug addict and frequent inmate, died.

What will be my line?
AEN of Aurora, apotheosized sibling and lionized long-distant relative, died on Friday.

We are all trying to gain some insight or perspective
that will serve us when we put our pens down for the last time.

Wednesday, November 08, 2017

Dysregulation | Disregulation

No matches found.

abnormality or impairment
in the regulation
of a physiological or psychological process

2010: when it came to be used regularly
to describe losing one's shit
all the time.

No synonyms.  Just regret:
planets of regret
sitting in my stomach
dripping with whiskey.

A melted equator
right down the center of my anger.

Planets crumbling.  Unstable Krypton.

So I breathe and sip and take a hot shower
and tell my son that we're okay.  Not abnormal.
Not impaired.

Just full of passion and fire;
he an Aries and my Libra scales
balancing both hemispheres of our collected anger.

No matches found.

Monday, November 06, 2017

The presumption of opening my journal

The presumption of opening my journal
to write a poem:

I notice the rock,
an autumn character
who hurries between difficult languages.

Imagine the pattern
connecting two clouds
centimeters apart.
This season speaks with worry
knowing that Winter water is heavy and near.

I found this silent rock
and opened my journal to write
in the moonlight: my process protects me.
This presumption and experience say

little about my practice, but
much to my passion.

Monday, October 30, 2017

Scratching...

I don't have much to say,
but I'm saying it anyway;

And so I continue to fill the space
between my thoughts and the end of the page.

Scratching...

Scratching, scratching, thinking and
scratching until something comes out.

Either I'm profound and clever
or just sad and desperate.

And so I close my journal for the evening.

Friday, October 27, 2017

Perdita

I'm holding her hand, tighter than I realize,
as we serpentine through the crowd,
when I realize that I'm lost.
I know where I'm walking, the benefit
of living in a decade where I am always the
center of every digital map; watching my haloed
triangle, stylized for effect, gliding toward
that red, inverted-drop-shaped destination

Omnia perdita sunt.

I'm disregulated, close my eyes
to oneiric images of my father
dragging me to the bathroom,
stripping off my clothes, yelling.
Hot tears dissolve in the steam-filled
shower, as I shit myself.
His breath spews forth like lava,
molten magma, scarring my body,
callousing my ten-year-old skin.

In extremis: my memory fades to black.

We've crossed the street, skipping across each
crosswalk stripe, arriving at the park.
My sons run off ahead, fearless and rugged:
Appaloosas galloping in the still-warm dusk.
I hesitate before letting go of her hand,
quickly desperate to never let go of her hand.
We walk toward the swing-set.