I dream of every trip
I thought about but never took.
All the jagged cores of Earth
I could have roamed, like a corkscrew,
the bottles of wine I could’ve
sipped in the arms of a stranger.
all the moments I could’ve escaped,
the sphere of mourning a lost love
and saw our connection of flesh
the way it was:
a cockeyed and hopeful
melding of greed and alcohol.
I’m trying to put into words
how it feels to breathe
alongside the ocean and
consider all the change.
I’ve wandered, so long without discipline,
on a simple mission for truth.
To map out what’s boundless
and keep my head above the flood
of this unbelievable world
and in my deepest of hearts
I think it’s unlikely
I’ll ever know how it feels to be anchored.
You see my foundation is not
weight, but a storm. Sweet survival
and relentless tides, swaying
with incomprehensible gravity.
Tomorrow, I’ll discover why I was
wrong yesterday. I’ll feel shame
until nostalgia licks me all over
in the sheer warmth;
what i’ve found;
all that is
youth & discovery.
with a snake for a spinal cord,
I weave through the professional world
of cubicle ant colonies,
flicking my tongue for the taste
hickies stashed beneath my blazer,
mischievously scented thighs,
in economic speak: the most sensible
return of investment. here,
in the dripping maze
I mean business.
within one microcosmic glimmer of perfection
could anyone truly understand the ship wreck which is my mind?
like a moon whose shadow wanes as it grows,
i run away from the puzzling shape of humans
like a fish out of water
but on steroids.
A poem a day
For the times you’re away
From what could be
Somehow, the rain becomes a flood
and you, the trigger of the pulse
of my whimsical world
are muddled beneath the steady
cadence of rain drops + umbrellas.
i’m left to wonder
over the pyramid of time
when we lived, embraced
the rain with open eyes
and let it wash upon
our dirty and broken
forgive me, i’m trying
to treat an addiction that burns
with an impulse so strong
it once carried me like a parachute soldier
across the ocean, through farmlands,
into a cacaphonous and glorious muck. new orleans, where the passion is so endless
without you, i’m a ghost walking a tight rope.
a movie without a script,
free to stumble and fall
although she doesn’t yet know the strings,
she walks along the beach every morning
at seven o’clock sharp,
never looking for seashells,
always singing about the sun…
old toes barefoot on sand
in a crisply washed, fruity sundress
that billows like a kite
cheerfully anchored to the shore
with books of poetry
and index cards of homemade recipes
and fourty-minute phone calls with
strange aunts who live in Michigan
she cannot sing well but joins
the ukulele circle every morning
along the beach, and she’s taking lessons
starting this June to learn how to play,
but I swear, somehow she already knows
its sunny rhythm.