Summer rains are so easy to forgive
Not a hindrance, but worn as an accessory for the evening.
A soothing pitter-patter on the windshield
A slightly inconvenient sprinkling that only adds more character to the night.
Or a welcome gift to our lawns and gardens:
The hallelujah afternoon downpour:
All watered and cooled–
the air fresh with verdure and petrichor;
A passing spell,
The whisper of Nature’s mercy,
A moment of weakness in the heavens,
A minor fracture in the sky,
A brief, cathartic sob
We receive with tempered joy–
Summer rains are so easily forgiven.
Is there any poetry left in you?
Do shadows of words still flit behind your eyes?
Or are the pills what make this shade of magenta?
Have you found every synonym for a good idea?
Where is the mile-marker for too far?
Was this July anochecer born of the bloody, nutrient-rich placenta of yes?
Blackened heels and soles trodden barefoot over someone’s unswept apartment floor–
Black coffee balcony nicotine mornings and
Half-watched movie, impromptu cider nights,
Black ring around the eyes, yesterday’s
Makeup precariously in tact
After one week of our Ted Hughes, shitty shoes, never lose synthetic Bohemia,
Do you have any poetry left in you?
Split-second decisions are full of lard and MSG and high-fructose corn syrup:
It’s calling you,
It’s saying yes,
It’s saying no,
I carry their weight for years and years
But no exercise regimen seems to exorcise the guilt compacted in me,
tumor-like, hanging from my bones
One idea disguised as inspiration or revelation or a stroke of genius
will be the last to leave me, stored in my gut,
my lifelong hangover,
my tattooed asymptote.
When every hour is
Drudge and plodder
And the greatest burden
is staying awake
When days are like
You toss and turn your ungazing eyes
While the world looks on in wonder.
A page, some musty
paragraphic incisions of ink
This book, near spineless
swirling grey in a flurry of think
I’m so weary of young men. But their fresh-faced instability is captivating.
I almost died.
Some people ask if I saw the light; if there was a tunnel?
No, not entirely. There were cracks through which the light shone and then became refracted in a dazzling confusion of color and pain-killers.
Probably purple. Possibly green.
I felt my childhood rupture along an artery… every summertime sprinkler cold on your skin. Every snow day that never ends. When letters were hieroglyphics and you wondered what they meant…
My ancestors were there to greet me. They waited patiently for two hours, ready to receive me in their myriad European tongues.
They dispersed when a surgical drill broke through my cranium.
Consciousness lost comprehension; rushed out of me in blood-cloudy spinal fluid. I can only recall the sun-warm sensation of the peachy pink twilights that you hope to remember.
Memory repeated until it unclotted itself.
My quiet repose was nearly absolute upon sterile sheets, undreaming a short lifetime of misunderstandings, when a cacophony of beeping machinery hearkened my immanent departure.
I was a precarious hovering, a mist threatening dispersion.
Verging on vanish, riding the faint vapor of a final breath, I briefly dissolved only to re-enter myself.
And I can’t tell you why or the hour of my assemblage, just that I know the color of nondescription.
I opened my eyes: light.