Last night I dreamt of the perfect opening line to a poem that would, I had no doubt, piece back together the crumbling world. It was a line that drew you in, breathless, that made you drop everything—coffee, that online shopping cart one click from arriving at your door—and pay...
Mind abuzz, body stiff, I take my meds and wait for rest. For by now the clouds have come and gone and brought no rain, the dishes are put away, all juice squeezed from the day...
“The only difference between a flower and a weed is judgement.” - Wayne Dyer
I have mistaken Ragweed for Goldenrod,
alleyways for gardens, watched them torn out,
make way for something better. I have asked
what better is, been taught the benefits of
a healthy tan, a good diet, three square meals
and an hour of exercise a day.
Once, a coyote chastised me for drinking espresso
before bedtime. All night I watched him watch me,
both of us tense, locked
If I had my way, I suppose there would be no shorelines, no dying light sinking into bruised-blue lakes, no dead poets, no Libraries of Alexandria...
I have put pen to much that I ought not have written, including, perhaps, these very words. I have mistaken Ragweed for Goldenrod, alleyways for gardens, watched them torn out,
In 2008 I was a graduate student with almost no understanding of the financial system--I couldn't even explain the difference between an interest rate and an APR!…
I wish to sit by the window and read—but not outside, where UV rays intrude, and wildfire smoke, and gunfire, and bird-shit dropped...
Dearest, I meant to prove myself worthy
of every challenge, up to death itself.
The day began with feats of strength, like
getting out of bed and brushing my teeth.
I took till noon to venture out; by then
the mid-day sun hovered angrily,
a hive of wasps I couldn’t swat away.
Where had all the shade gone? I retreated
to bed, but the covers burned my skin; I heard
the oppressive buzz of insects under my pillows.
You needn't believe in ghosts to dance with
them. Just ask the Robin napping in the
quiet of a broken fountain, drunk on jasmine
and sugar. Ask drowsy Orion, who was up all
night, or the Taiga, bent on its knees, heaving
snow and ice. Ask the businessman who got
away with it, or the panhandler who did not,
who admonishes you not to make promises
you can’t keep. Ask the judge who says of
your earnest complaint,
To write love poems when this world’s a mess is like, depending on your point of view, finding jasmine on the moon—an excess of joy where all is bleak—or dreams of blue sky at night, of food in famine...
We are all mourners now, our clothes funeral shrouds we tear off our backs when the time comes (and it will come); in one pocket we carry brushes for tidying the graves we stumble on in schools, churches, nightclubs, concerts, grocery stores, streetcorners...
I can't decide anything these days: sonnet or free verse; to read on the couch or spend my son's brief nap putting away dishes as if dishes could ever stay clean; hope or despair...
