contains ample exuberance & grandeur read responsibly
Someone’s got to stand at the door waving,
then busy up the empty house, clear the table, dishes,
her face. Someone’s got to wash away
that smear of relief and regret,
keep the birds in check,
break a few speckled eggs, then cry
as if it were all a cruel mistake. Because the eggs
are ruined. Because we never get back
that feeling of lying in the grass, breathing in
the soft earth and the whole of summer before us.
We love celebration, the smell of fireworks,
but we work too long and forget to pick up milk.
We don’t notice or agree. And it’s too easy
to hit someone’s hand with a ruler. And a hundred times
is too many. We need to forge a different taste,
give it a name and shape,
then send an arrow through it. So we can hold
each other. So the phoebe can re-use its nest.
So flowers can bloom. So the loyal dog
can travel half a continent and return home,
limping and proud. So conversation can be more
palatable than absence—like cotton candy—
sweet, and then nothing. Even so, it anchors us
when we think we might blow away.
Nothing makes her happier than pouring cream into her iced coffee. Than pouring milk into her tea. White silk billows round her whenever she enters a room. There is conversation waiting in the corner: “Oh, how nice.” “Yes, it’s new.” “Thank you. Have one too.” Dye wanted to join, but maybe they would think it too intrusive. Wouldn’t they laugh after she left the circle anyway? She whispered into her Americano and smiled.
His fans are called “sunflowers,” so that makes her pretty no matter how much her face protests. Dye points her left toes forward, sweeps her leg round 180 degrees. “How nice.” “Thank you. It’s new.” The silk envelops her. She is backstage at Inkigayo. She is weightless.
Nothing makes her happier than little white clouds infusing their sweetness with deep brown prowess. Wouldn’t it be great if plastic could clink too? Shouldn’t the world be perfect if she could have an iced Americano with a generous helping of half-and-half today?
we could eat
as many crayons
as we want
His skin hovering above water felt
drawn to it; he’ll have to lure her,
simmering over supper with no heat,
no fire. I suppose before
headlights hit her, he’ll sing. I
suppose before she knew
magic and folding, he called her.
She’ll come running without a name.
"I wish to leave the world
By its natural door;
In my tomb of green leaves
They are to carry me to die.
Do not put me in the dark
To die like a traitor;
I am good, and like a good thing
I will die with my face to the sun."
"A Morir (To Die)" by José Martí, translated to English
Depression is every place telling you, “You don’t belong here.” The sidewalks won’t even register your steps. You have no sense of direction, and a train is coming.
Two weeks ago I crash-landed in a rice paddy. It had been filled with water minutes before my arrival. They were expecting me. They watched me backstroke through the muddy waters. I sang “Catfish Blues” to my heart’s content: an offering to the father of Chicago’s soul. and then and then and then Tears are futile and won’t come when called. I take the fetal position in my bathtub. Imagine the warm water is the arms of a lover. Imagine if I breathe down there, they’ll let me into heaven.
Depression is vast and white and hungry. Pet the top of its head every once in a while. Stroke behind its ears. You can’t lose any more of yourself. The sidewalks are littered with pieces of you. Find your way home.
Twinkle twinkle, the tears in your eyes make me smile
I don’t want anyone to steal glances at you, smile for me
I get pushed more and more with my sighs after entering a forest
called you, from which I can’t escape
I don’t care if I die in this unknown place so hurry and come to me
footprints never say why
man is not carrying god,
like birds balancing phone
wires and letting words die
before they reach every
trying ear myriad time
-s. I read somewhere that
static is a bird’s beating wings. I
read once that a phone call
forces god into man’s arms. on
-ly, whose wings can bear him?