Day 15 - SiltThere is a downward pull that begins slowly –Forty years of fine red silt cease flowing through your veinsAnd settle like sedimentary rock.Things, and you, begin to taste of copper.Lavender mists condense as you walk out to fetch the paperThe kettle is whistling or the coffee roiling when you return to the kitchen.Your lover is waiting, his beard and hair greying slightly:Sometimes he still kisses you like he did when you were twenty three.You start to spend your evenings in the ochre lightOf sloppily-painted sunsets which begin around the time the theme for Final Jeopardy fades out.Coffee cups are washed, sinks drained.Everything smells of earth and book pages with a hint of Pine-Sol.The window is filled with the amber radiance of marigolds –he likes to garden,While you are more careless, killing houseplants by neglect.You promise to stop disassociating yourself, and to write less in the second person.You get drunk less often and even jog once in a while.Yo
Day 4 - QuietAutumn began and ended quicklySo now the sun sets early and I spend my evenings in the dark.Today’s thoughts are quiet ones -Where we love is where we live and die.
Day 3- North StarIt was dark when I left work today,And I shivered as the wind slid around my bare legs.(shouldn’t have worn a dress today, says the voice in my head.)I try my best to ignore it. I always do.I swear familiarly, angrily, when traffic is backed up at the bridge again –This traffic congested tangled metal thing spanning the riverLike some kind of urban jungle gym.But still it is the northern star of my commute and points the long way home.I’m perched on a stool in his mother’s kitchenWith a mug of orange tea in my hands and a bowl of chicken soup with dumplings in front of me.On the way home, my debit card is declined.I try not to panic.
Day 2 - DetritusI squint my eyes as you kiss my freckled facemy sunstreaked hair out behind me like a bannerAs I emerge from the lake with foam and seaweed clinging to my calves.I make a face. You laugh.Longing is a savory dish we must sit down to dine,even as we cling togetherin a tired knot with mouths that taste of lemonade and alcohol.I whisper in your ear “I don’t want you to go.” The night before we left a storm broke with rain and thunder, and lightning webbed across the sky like lace. I came to where you slept, weaving myself into your arms.This is the detritus of summer:pearlescent driftwood grasped in hands worn down by sand.Filling up our pockets with stones, memories.A wall of tiny meaningful things we build to keep out the coming of the night.There are no secrets here but many mysteriesAnd subtle, half-veiled truths waiting to be made known
Day 1- Cold HandsEveryone said a storm was coming but I did not prepare.Perhaps I was too flippant or afraid to acknowledge?Probably the latter –Avoidance is my middle name.The storm’s precursor:Grey skies, and rain hissing its way up my windshield as the wipers, groaning,Flung it away.A low front settled into my chest midafternoon at the thought of leaving.Now, I sit on the couch by the window, watching the rain fallAs the cold gradually seeps from my limbs and my fingers thaw slowly.But isn’t a blanket a small comfort compared to you,Immediate and present, mouth tasting ofSour apple and blood?
Cemetery LaneDriving down Cemetery Lane Steering wheel gripped tightly, top and bottom, taking sharpCurves,As the radio host mourns the fate of Montana's coal industry.We'd go behind the school with the Grecian columnsIn a parking lot pooled with yellow streetlights, exploringThe darkness my mouth left on your neck.Driving and breaking too fastWith the memory of the way each bend winds around itselfLike solemn ribbons around the tombstones.Lying on a bed far from home Pizza box kicked on the floor and the television flickering with the sound off.I cannot forget the way your skin brushed mine.
MineThe past four years, I have been a nomad,A snail, whose house is wherever her back is.An hourglass constantly turned over and over, measuringTime until I leave, time until I return.I'm packing a bag with my toothbrush, my phone, and my fiancé's shirt to keep me warm i won't be gone long, i only need a few days' worth of clothing.Life doled out in miniscule increments like the vitamins I portion into plastic baggiesAnd forget to take when I am gone.I've tired of living out of packed suitcases and half empty closets,With a roof provided, but my heart somewhere else.Filling out paperwork, what is my address?When is the night where I can go to sleep and feel your arms around me,Waking up to tangled limbs, tousled hair and no bed else to sleep in?Tell me when I can put my bags away, throw out my arms and sayThis is mine.
BrillianceI wasn't sure if I was falling asleep or drowning. Pastor Abilay had just reached the third point of this three-point outline and I was fading quickly. "The devil's 15 minutes," my father often called it. He would sit rigidly at the head of the dining room table after every Saturday dinner and warn us that just as the pastor reaches the place where Scripture is applied to our lives, we start to drift off due to the devil's influence. I always did, and it terrified me.Pastor Abilay's sermons were an odd blend of clinical Calvinistic theology combined with the self-assured charisma of a leader whose word was law. His sermons always made me feel as if I were boxed in by walls of water and left me with a dead weight in my stomach. Just as I thought I couldn't take any more, he concluded the sermon and we moved on to the final singing. The presenter came to the front of the stage, hummed a few bars of the next Psalm, and we all began to sing. The song rolled in a rich four-part harmony tha
Come HomeCome HomeThe leaves were just starting to fall as Alexander Bartel wheeled his bike out of the garage and left for work. They had been yellow and orange for a few weeks, but red veins had gradually taken over until today, when, at the hands of an incoming cold front, they began to fall like rain. The wind had awoken him early and when he woke up, so did his wife, who glared at him in the dim morning light and rolled back over. Breakfast had been instant oatmeal and instant coffee and half a glass of pulp-free orange juice. Grace liked pulp and he didn't, so they bought two separate half gallons every week. She was just waking up when he left for work but he made it out the door without her noticing.On the whole, Grace was not very supportive. She acted as if she didn't believe him when he said he was going to work and had taken another job on the side for extra money. He always said he would help her achieve success as a writer but now she had taken the new job and rarely went to her
Dream it. Do it.Dream all you canBut don’t spend all your time sleeping.Feel all you canBut don’t spend all your time weeping.If you see a shooting star;Catch it and run far.Let its burning light igniteYour heart, mind and soul.Be inspiredBut also be inspiration;Listen wellAnd you could beThe voice of a generation.Daydream and schemeAnd look beyondWhat things seem,But also do and be;Allow yourself restraintAs a means of being free.Dream in realityAs well as in your sleepAnd you’ll soon findThat fulfilmentIs yours to keep.
ReflectionI want to sprinkle a piece of meInto bit-code hoping it sticks.But no one cares about the truthUnless it's funny.And I've lost sight Of what that is;I've been taught that it's all relative.We're all irrelevant in the endAnd so, the fire that use to burn in my heartIs all Charcoal. And I've been tryingTo see with no eyes; to drive withNo direction.But now I know I want to meltTogether people's 90 degree angles,Until the world knows everyone's rights.I want to melt together the distanceThat separates prose and poetry;Fact and Fiction; light and darkness.
Dead or alive?I feel numbAnd coldIs this death?Or am I still alive?If I'm aliveI shouldn't beBecause death is betterThan this cursed lifeTo dieTo sleepNo more
He only dates broken girls.I will destroy you. I willmake you love mewithout even trying;you’ll love the scabson my knees, the bruisesunder my eyes, mysinged hair. You will lovethe rush of holdingmy hand as we crossthe bridge; you’ll feellike a hero each timeI don’t jump. You will buyme chocolates, the mostexpensive, to guilt meinto eating. You will buyme seeds instead of flowers,to give me a reason toget up in the morning. Youwill make me dependent,even as I feed your whiteknight complex. I will destroymyself, and so you,and you will know why storms are named after people.
Ignorant WisdomThe best of us die youngWhy?We are blood and bodyMind and muddled matterThat decays from the very airNecessary like an addictionOur eyes are skin and sinewSenses intaking a surfaceBut to the machine of faultsWhat is there lost to us?The best of us are of willAs what will be passed beliefThe demanding of subconsciousEdicts of the soulThen why do they die?Why must a will be severedWhen it drives our existenceAll that there isAnd will ever represent us?Why do vessels feed the muscle?Bones hold up our legsAnd a head with strong neckThat its aspirations rise?The best of us accomplishTasks of a higher calibreLike a barrel of the cannonOne volley into the starsThey undertake with all motiveAnd lose the unwinnable conditionFor through their demarcationRevitalize our weak heartsThe best of us die youngWhy?Because they are not usAnd remind us what we should beThrough the greatest leagueOf history's lessonsThey sacrifice their chance to liveAs watcher of the
coming of agethere are parts of meyou can still hearon the radio;at first, you'll mouththe words, but youwon't be able to tellif the static touchingyour ears rests inmemory, and memory alone.my love is not leagues deep.you'll always be the oneto decide if i'm worth standingin up to the ankle,lukewarm and lapping,or if you'd like to sleepbeneath my shores, milesbelow discernible life.the long lesions scoringthe belly of my pridehave scabbed over,and trust me when i sayi clench my fists uponremembering those who havebruised me in the nameof disgust -trust me when i saymy teeth are baredand i am snarling,the blood from past fearsstaining my lips.
No ShipI stand on the edge of the ocean.A cliff-bench seats me,Silence greets me.Bleak and sullen skyForebodes a storm, but no winds blowGull-cries mock me I see no ship on the horizon;Breakers crash. The echoesOf my cry.