Thursday, May 31, 2018

Destruction is swift, it certainly can be.
This tearing and awful grinding as the parts that had long been piling atop one another are no longer in place.
Were they ever in place exactly as we wanted, or just how they inevitably ended up?
This part here was imperfect, and yet it was meant to be here.
What has happened was meant to be; a strange thought.
And so things come down eventually, to build into something else.
My skin and bones to be returned to some earth to some time to some expansion of the universe.
The tearing down is painful.
We can tear things down quickly, but the pain will be no less.

Build again?
One hopes, if we were happy with it.
Maybe something a bit different.
Realign and compress, to better balance our structure.
Still we are the same builders.
And building is hopefully what we are trying to do.
I hope it is what I am doing.

Tuesday, September 26, 2017

There were others before you

The reasons are not simple.
The feelings are.

It's not that we think this is some right solution.
It's that you didn't think the others were.
You weren't listening.

I can see myself in you.
Let there be no dishonesty between us
Is what I long for

It is exhausting isn't it
To care and only be these two hands and single mouth
If I had twenty mouths and the right amount of lungs and vocal cords,
Then I would have more than you,
And my voice would be louder.

More cacophonous.

I band with my brothers and you yours.
But I can see myself in you.
Let there be no dishonesty between us
Bring me your hands and not your gun

Your gun, your mask.
They keep you safe, and not me.
Do you wear them to be safe from me?
From my brother?

Will you not work with us?
Will you not put aside your gun to work with us?

I care not how coarse you speak, how deep your frustration, if you're willing to know my frustration too.
I can see myself in you.
Let there be no dishonesty between us
I am scared for the future.

There is enough.
But it can be squandered.
We have wasted plenty.

I want to protect what's left.
But a gun and a mask will not protect it.


Sunday, August 28, 2016

Here in the northeast
I ascribe different origins
To the feelings and emotions I have.

Were it
Could I
Would we?

Leave me under the pleasing
Crook of the stairs
That lead to your room

And tender moods settle
With gentle mind
And a simple dinner made well.

Back nestled together
On cushions next to
Lamps and cradling emptied mugs.

Gingerly listening to friends
Turning in and closing
Bedroom doors for the night.


Wednesday, April 20, 2016

The first thirty minutes of April 21st, 2016

Weird how it passes,
The nights and the mornings,
Ripple beneath my conscience.

I assume I want it to last,
But aren't I hoping it brings
Something that hasn't come yet?

I continue to look and examine,
My hands, still here resting,
They're a little shakier these days.

But I remember judging
And knowing even in my teens,
That I could never be a surgeon.

Luckily I instead work in cafes,
Late in the night drinking

Coffee and smiling at the staff.

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

I had to do these things when I got here.
Most of them got done.
Just a few important points left,
The respect I have for those.
In every little nook.
The noise filling the silence.
That's all it does I guess.
Noise, thunder, tracks of small absences in the mud.
Then the noise ends,

And here we are again.

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Sandra Bland

I still feel queasy.
My first thoughts, though, whenever I write these troubles down, go elsewhere.
How many cops I know.
Friends, family.
Good people. I think of them.
I'm still queasy. I almost feel like I want to throw up.
They have children, most of them raise them right.
They are respectful and, though some of them I know can be brusque, I like them.
I'm still looking at pictures, hashtags, major sites, the alt websites, too.
There's a picture where she looks haggard, in that orange jumpsuit.
She's missing the smile from every other picture of her online.
She looks hollow.
Where did she go?

There's this thing where you're all lumped together.
You're identified one way, and there are bad seeds.
Not even bad seeds.
Seeds choked in poor soil.
That have grown up into twisted adults, contorting and biasing the rest of our realities.
I have this feeling, about halfway down my chest.
I'm queasy.
I'm really upset about this.
She's a normal lookin woman in most of what I see online.
She's clearly someone who speaks her mind.
I know a lot of women who speak their mind.
I don't know that many black women.
I'm still queasy.
There's no denial that it was just a failure to signal a turn?
They don't deny that it was more than that?
That she's expected to get out of her car for that?
It's daylight.
That a cigarette matters.
Are you serious?
You don't have to immediately do anything they say, right?
Anything? They aren't human?

It's just this deep feeling, it sits under everything else I think about for the last hour.
What's a bad seed. Is it twisted poisoned soil?
I want to be the one who talks back.
But apparently.

I'm queasy.

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Enjoys pressing the undersides of mugs and glasses on fabric to leave behind wet rings of condensation on clothing.

Words dribbled onto canvas.
Fears and childish thoughts rippled outward from churning inner space while the world is quiet.
Never quite sure where the line is.
Knowing the line is just a construct.
Categories, buckets, simplicities for the sake of making life easier.

Wanting to navigate those more complex waters, seeing wonder and satisfaction.
Thrilled with the universe.
Nervous about drowning.
A dull hum slowly resonating.
Like the noise of the grain of timbers softened and finished for tabletops and chairs and counters.

Flipping the sweatshirt on and off again.
Twirling the smooth fabric inside out and outside in and the moment of warmth.
Against the moment of those sleeves just that inch too far.
Those sleeves, to toy with them, tug at them, pull them back.
Or use them to cover the fist, wrapped and tucked away. Safe.

It's a moment.
Dribbled out across the pavement like coffee dripping from a cracked travel mug.
No longer useful, after only a year.
Not even a mocha now. Coffee with some half and half and sugar.
Stopped getting whip cream every time on mochas.

That was forever ago, and that was never planned.
Pressing some more condensation into pant legs, the darkening temporary moisture.
Gone back into the air, or whatever it does so rapidly.
Pushing the sleeve back, settled hands in the old familiar manner.